


Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows

by Dawn (sunrize83)



Series: Blood Ties [6]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 46,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/Dawn
Summary: What happens when the person you despise becomes your only hope for saving someone that you love? Grey McKenzie and Bill Scully are about to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

Georgetown  
Sunday  
3:42 p.m.  
  


"Set one foot outside that door and I will shoot you where you stand." 

*Busted.* 

Mulder pasted on a toothy grin. "Hey, Scully. I didn't expect you back so soon." 

"I can see that." Scully couched her response in a flat tone, her blazing eyes making up for the lack of expression. 

She lay her palm flat against his chest and pushed, none too gently maneuvering him back into her apartment so that she and the bag of groceries could slip past. Basketball still tucked under one arm and resting on his hip like a beloved child, Mulder silently watched her furious back as it disappeared into the kitchen. Only Scully could have a furious back, he thought ruefully, but there it was. Exasperation in the unnaturally straight set of her spine, irritation in the rigid set of her shoulders. Six years, and he could write a book on all the subtle and not so subtle nuances of Scully's body language \-- one of the reasons she was incapable of lying to him. The logical extension of that thought broadsided him, his head swiveling to regard his reflection in the mirror to his left. Shifty eyes, flared nostrils, teeth embedded in his lower lip... In short, guilty as hell even without the damning evidence of the basketball. 

Mirror Mulder glowered and stabbed his finger, muttering,  
"You have seriously lost your edge. Better start groveling." 

Scully was putting away several cans of soup -- with a vengeance. Mulder winced as first garden vegetable and then chicken and rice met the wooden shelf with an earsplitting crack. He leaned in the doorway, the offending ball tucked safely out of sight in the hall, and searched for a mood-lightening quip. 

"Mulder, so help me, if you dredge up one of those smart remarks of yours I won't be held responsible for my actions." 

And then again, maybe this called for the direct approach. 

"Scully, it's not what you think." 

"You know, I'm really glad to hear that, Mulder. Because what I think is that you were headed out into the frigid air with barely healed lungs to shoot baskets at the park around the corner. And taking into consideration the fact you're only five days out of the hospital, that would make you either monumentally stupid or in need of committal at the nearest psychiatric facility." 

The latter half of that rant stung, a little too close to some of the snide whispers of the Bureau rumor mill and way too painful after his recent first-hand experience in five-point restraints courtesy of Greg Pincus. 

"You're really on a roll, aren't you?" he snapped, his good intentions flying out the window to join her temper. 

"I haven't even begun," Scully spat, wrapping her arms tightly across her chest and narrowing her eyes. "Have you actually forgotten the condition you were in a week ago? You nearly died, Mulder! You promised Nick Brewer you would follow his instructions to the letter, and unless I'm mistaken, basketball was not on the list of approved activities during convalescence!" 

It was hard -- no, make that impossible -- to argue with that one, but Mulder gave it the old college try. "Sculleee! The walls were closing in on me, to say nothing of the fact that I'm bored stiff. You and Skinner won't even let me *look* at a case file, and have you seen the crap they put on TV during the day? I just wanted to shoot a few baskets, nothing strenuous! It's not like I was going to play a game." 

Mulder anticipated any one of several reactions to his protest. Another, more extensive diatribe on his lack of common sense and self-destructive tendencies, sarcasm for his pitiful attempt at gaining her sympathy, even acidic humor at his inability to entertain himself. Scully spinning on her heel and leaving the room was perhaps the very last thing he would have expected, and Mulder stared at the now vacant spot where she'd been standing and gaped like a fish for several minutes before tracking her to the living room. 

She'd ensconced herself in the far corner of the sofa, curled into a ball and gazing out the window. Body language again, telling him louder than words that this time he'd done more than just piss her off. Suddenly Mulder felt the proximity of his brush with death, every cell in his body weary. He slumped down onto the cushions, close but not touching, and caressed her face with his gaze. 

"Scully, I..." 

"It's not really that you hold yourself in such low esteem," Scully said, tearing her eyes from their contemplation of a black Ford pickup and meeting his with a level stare. "Though I'd be lying if I said that didn't bother me, didn't hurt me to some degree. I love you, and when I see how little value you place on your own life and well-being it can't help but cause me pain. But that's not the real issue here, Mulder. The crux of the matter is that you deceived me. You assured me that you'd be fine on your own, that I could go to the store and not worry about you, and then you deliberately set about breaking that promise. So much for your precious trust." 

Her words, the edges honed sharp by their truth, penetrated every chink in his formidable armor. Mulder's mouth worked impotently for an eternity before managing to vocalize a token rebuttal that sounded weak even to his own ears. 

"Scully, I didn't plan it. I just didn't think..." 

"Then let me give you a little something to ruminate on, Mulder. You aren't the only one with an investment in your recovery. I paid for the cure that enabled you to be sitting here next to me right now. Don't you dare presume to cheapen that by reducing it to a game." 

Scully's voice dropped in pitch and her eyes grew distant, haunted. Mulder could almost see the memories play across her face -- memories that she had resolutely refused to share with him. He'd recognized the fresh scars that could only be attributed to her experience with Cancerman, agonized over each with morbid fascination. In the absence of actual facts, his mind insisted on conjuring up its own horror show. He tried not to think about it, to accept that whatever Scully had endured was now behind them and must be put to rest. But the forced inactivity left him with few methods of distraction, and his thoughts insistently returned to the worries the way a child cannot seem to refrain from picking a scab. It was just such traitorous musings, rebuffing his efforts to squash them, which had driven him to pick up that damn basketball and head for the front door. 

That Scully would think he belittled her sacrifice decimated him. 

Without conscious thought, he dropped to his knees and buried his face in her lap. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, explain that the chief response her actions provoked was not indifference, or even regret, but fear. Fear that she could possibly feel for him the equivalent of the love he felt for her. It was all right for Fox Mulder to put his life on the line, travel halfway across the word, or bargain with the devil to save Dana Scully. But the realization, the incontrovertible proof that Dana Scully would willingly walk through fire for Fox Mulder... The nagging whisper in his head, the one with his father's voice, insisted she was a fool. That Fox Mulder had never been worthy of that kind of love and never would be. 

So he knelt on the floor with his forehead pressed to her thighs and the words clogging his throat, not even realizing he was weeping until he felt Scully's fingers sift through his hair and heard her gently shushing him. 

"Mulder. Mulder, don't. This isn't what I wanted from you, love," she murmured. "Can't you understand?" 

He scrabbled for control, turning to lean his back against the couch but leaving one arm draped over her legs. His head ached, he desperately craved a cup of cold water, and his muscles were beginning to thrum with exhaustion. "I want to, Scully. Can't you see that any reality is preferable to my imagination? Do you honestly believe I haven't considered the price you paid for that serum? It's all I can think about! We need to talk about this -- for your sake as well as mine." 

Scully glanced away from his upturned face. "I know. I just need some more time." 

Mulder sighed wearily, leaning his head against her knee. "You've got it, babe. God knows you've cut me enough slack over the last six years." 

"Just for the record, Mulder -- cutting me some slack includes refraining from behaving like an idiot, doesn't it?" Scully's tone communicated a trace of humor as her small hand tangled affectionately in his hair again, this time punctuating the sentence with a gentle tug. 

"I resemble that remark," Mulder muttered, allowing himself to be drawn up onto the cushions beside her and trying in vain to stifle an enormous yawn. After several minutes of companionable silence, Mulder pulled back a little so he could see Scully's face. 

"Hey, babe, you know by now that I'm used to running or playing basketball when I need a distraction. If you're going to keep me out of trouble, you'll just have to dream up an alternate method of diverting my attention." He wriggled his eyebrows and grinned lecherously. 

A slow, seductive smile spread across Scully's face. "I don't know, Mulder. Are you sure you're ready for that? It's a lot for one man to handle." 

"Oooh, Scully! Trust me when I assure you that I can manage anything you choose to send my way!" Mulder said, pitching his voice in the husky timbre he knew got under her skin. 

Scully leaned over and caught his lips in a kiss that instantly tripled his heartrate and eradicated all traces of exhaustion, breaking it only after reducing him to a panting mound of gelatin. Her eyes glinted wickedly, and her Cheshire cat grin actually widened. 

"That's wonderful to hear, love. I have that stack of expense reports in my briefcase, would you like them now?" 

She was still snickering, inordinately pleased with herself, when Mulder finally picked his jaw up off the floor. "You are a cruel woman, Scully," he growled, flopping back onto a throw pillow in a gesture of defeat. "A very cruel woman."  
  


Georgetown  
Sunday  
6:30 p.m.  
  


The brisk rap on her door startled Scully, wrenching her from immersion in the successful usage of Thalidomide with AIDS patients. She set the journal on the coffee table and stole a quick look at Mulder, still unconscious, before standing. She indulged in a brief, feline stretch, vertebra popping agreeably, before padding across the room. She couldn't suppress the prickle of irritation at the second knock, more insistent than the first, which beat her to the door. 

Obviously patience was not one of her visitor's virtues. 

Scully peered through the peephole, took in the fish-eye view of red hair and broad shoulders, and flung open the door. Before she could draw breath to speak his name, Bill pulled her into a bear hug that literally swept her off her feet. 

"Hey, Short Stuff. How have you been?" he asked, grinning as he returned her to earth. 

"I'm good! Bill, what are you doing here? Mom said you wouldn't be in town until Wednesday night," Scully replied, the animation in her voice revealing her pleasure at the discrepancy. 

"I managed to extend my leave a little, so we flew in this afternoon. Tara's back at Mom's with Matty. He was worn out from the flight." 

Casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the couch, Scully half expected to see Mulder performing his "Night of the Living Dead" imitation. Since his illness, he tended to sleep so deeply that his normally hair trigger awakening had degenerated to a gradual process consisting of several minutes spent in a dazed, zombie-like condition. Contrary to her prediction, however, he was still sleeping soundly and in the same position -- one leg trailing off the side of the couch and the remote control still loosely gripped in one hand. 

Scully wasn't aware that her eyes softened and the corners of her mouth curved at the sight. Nor did she perceive her brother's jaw clench in response. 

"Come into the kitchen," she said quietly, pulling him inside so that she could shut the door. "We can sit at the table." 

"Sure," Bill muttered, jerking down the zipper on his jacket as he followed her. "Wouldn't want to wake sleeping beauty, now would we?" 

Scully paused, spinning around and nailing him with a warning glare. "Don't start, Bill. You don't understand, Mulder's been very sick and..." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard. He had pneumonia and some other weird condition that almost killed him. Mom told me." Bill sank into one of the wooden chairs with a blank expression of indifference. "So that's the excuse this time?" 

Scully's lips thinned. "What are you talking about? What excuse?" 

Bill thrust his chin forward, brows lowered in a scowl. "The reason why you aren't spending Thanksgiving with your family. It's because of him, right? Your partner." He pronounced the word as if it only contained four letters. 

Scully bristled. "First of all, Bill, this was *my* idea -- not Mulder's. We planned this trip two months ago, before I knew you'd be in town." 

"Plans can be changed, Dana." 

The little line between Scully's brows deepened. "Perhaps so. But I'm not changing these. Now, can I get you something to drink? Coffee or a soda?" 

"You can try to give me a reasonable explanation for why this little getaway with him can't be postponed in deference to spending the holiday with your nephew -- who, I might add, barely knows you." 

*Ouch.* 

Scully dropped into a chair, reflecting that Bill's aim was as true as ever. Of course, he'd learned from the best. Ahab had been able to play her emotions with the skill of a virtuoso. Guilt and remorse vied with anger for control, and only the genuine hurt submerged in Bill's scowl prevented her sharp retort. 

"Look, I don't owe you justification for my decisions, Bill, but I also don't want you to think I make them lightly. This is a difficult time of year for Mulder under normal circumstances. Add to that the fact that it's his first Thanksgiving since his mother's death and he's recuperating from a life-threatening illness and maybe you can begin to appreciate why we felt the need to let our plans stand. Not to mention the fact that we've had very little opportunity to be alone together." 

"Just another in the long string of bad choices you've made over the last seven years," Bill growled. 

"DON'T! Why can't we have one pleasant visit where we catch up on each other's lives? Why must you always resort to undermining everything I value?" Scully, realizing her voice had crept higher in pitch and volume, clamped her mouth shut. 

"Do you expect me to just sit back and say nothing? Dad tried to tell you that joining the FBI was a mistake, but you wouldn't listen, and the consequences have impacted our entire family! Mom's already lost one daughter -- how many times do you think she can withstand nearly losing the other? Kidnapped, given cancer, shot, drugged -- hell, you can't even have children! Are you going to tell me it's worth it? That *he's* worth it? He's done nothing but tear this family apart since the day he stepped into your life!" 

Rather than further inflaming her, Bill's tirade prompted only calm resolution. Scully deliberately pushed her chair back and stood, leaning over to brace her palms on the smooth oak of the tabletop. 

"You have no say in my life, Bill. You don't know me, you never have. You thought just because I didn't dye my hair purple and wear crystals around my neck that meant I'd conform to your expectations for the perfect little sister, the dutiful daughter. But I choose my own path just as much as Missy did. Mulder is not accountable for my decision to do the work I do, and he certainly isn't accountable for the fallout from that choice. He is, however, responsible for giving me something you never have -- love without strings. Now, I think you'd better go." 

It was gratifying to watch Bill's eyes widen and his chin drop. He lurched to his feet and stalked across the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. 

"One of the reasons I stopped by tonight was to invite you to dinner at Mom's tomorrow," he said stiffly. "She figured you'd be busy packing and wouldn't have much food in the house." 

Scully sighed and shook her head. "I don't know, Bill. That might not be such a good idea." 

Bill pursed his lips and blew a puff of air out of his nose. "Tara and Matty would really like to see you. I promise I'll be civil." 

She elevated one eyebrow, tilting her head forward as if she hadn't caught his words. "Excuse me?" 

"You heard me. Just don't expect me to be involved in a group hug." Bill dug his hands into the pockets of his coat and hunched his shoulders. "Truce, okay, Short Stuff?" 

One corner of Scully's mouth quirked in spite of herself. "I'd like to see Tara and Matty. Tell Mom we'll be there about 5:30." 

She accompanied Bill to the door and suffered a kiss on her cheek. Shutting the door firmly behind him, she rested her forehead against the wood, feeling bruised inside. Abruptly remembering Mulder, she turned, her eyes darting to the couch. 

Empty. 

"Mulder? Did you finally decide to join the living?" she called, moving down the hall and into the bedroom. No sign of him there, either, though he'd evidently pulled on a sweatshirt, since that drawer lay open. One of Mulder's annoying bachelor habits was to open drawers but not close them. She bumped the drawer closed with her hip and checked the bathroom before completing the circuit and returning to the kitchen. 

No Mulder. 

Scully bit her lip, trying to quell the panicky voice that said he'd gone running. A stupid thing to do. A self-destructive thing to do. Something not even Mulder would resort to in his current condition, unless... 

*He's done nothing but tear this family apart since the day he stepped into your life!* 

Unless he was hurting so badly that he'd try anything to keep from thinking. 

Scully grabbed her coat and keys and headed out the door.  
  


Georgetown  
Sunday  
7:15 p.m.  
  


Scully yanked open the door and barreled full speed into an immovable object. Immovable, but not silent. Mulder grunted, flinging both hands out to clutch the jamb, dropping something with a loud thunk. Within a split second his weakened lungs protested the sudden whoosh of air by tipping him into a vigorous, but blessedly brief, bout of coughing. 

"Hey, Scully," he gasped, tears trickling down his flushed cheeks. "Going somewhere?" 

"Mulder!" 

Scully eagerly mapped his frame from head to toe, taking in the slightly disheveled hair, clean sweats, and sneakered feet. Her hand darted out of its own accord to cup his jaw, the skin warm and rough with stubble. The coil of fear in her belly loosened -- he'd obviously not been outside -- even as annoyance rushed in to take its place. 

"Where have you been? You had me worried sick!" 

Mulder's blank incomprehension, however, rapidly left her feeling foolish. "The laundry room. I ran out of clean sweats so I thought I'd better wash some." He reached to the side and retrieved the item he'd dropped -- an empty basket. 

Rather than risk digging the hole any deeper, Scully spun on her heel and stripped off her coat, taking longer than necessary to hang it in the closet. She felt Mulder brush by and move down the hallway to the bedroom, returning a moment later sans basket. His steps faltered just a bit as he hovered at her shoulder, then turned toward the kitchen. She listened to sounds of rummaging through the refrigerator for several minutes before sighing and following them. 

Mulder had poured himself a glass of juice and was in the process of removing the cap from a prescription bottle. 

"Better eat something," Scully admonished, moving over to pull out a loaf of bread. "You know how that tears up your stomach if you don't." 

Mulder made a face, but returned to the refrigerator for a package of deli meat, mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato. Scully laid out bread for two sandwiches and began layering turkey and lettuce while he sliced the tomato. Finally, she could take the pregnant silence no longer. 

"How much did you hear?" 

The smooth even swish of the blade never varied. "I went back to get the laundry basket while he berated you for neglecting your nephew and walked out just as the destruction of your family was laid in my lap." 

The words were cool, emotionless save for a dry twist of humor, but Scully's eyes caught the barest quiver of the hand that gathered tomato slices, and her ear detected the acceleration of breathing. Not for the first time, she mentally cursed her brother. 

"Mulder, he's an ass. He's always taken it upon himself to run my life without understanding what I really need," she said. She placed one of the sandwiches on a plate and handed it to him, deliberately snagging his fingers in the process. 

"You and I both know he's got a point, Scully," Mulder replied quietly, sitting down at the table and playing with the top slice of bread. "The X-Files have changed your life, changed you irrevocably. I'd be lying if I said there aren't times I'd give anything to turn back time so that I could do what I should have done that day you walked into my office." 

Scully knew where he was going, and didn't want to hear it. "And eliminate six years of foreplay?" she said, doing her best to imitate his trademark leer. "Mulder, you're no fun." 

He couldn't block the slight puff of laughter in spite of a heroic effort to remain sober. "Scully! You know what I'm talking about! Your life would be very different right now if I'd kept you out of this damn quest of mine! I'm just saying that Bill has good reason not to be president of the Fox Mulder fan club." 

"Especially since that position is already filled," Scully agreed, propping her chin on her hand. When he refused to allow a smile to be coaxed onto his face, she humphed. "This is a tired conversation, Mulder. I stand behind the choices I've made in my life, whether that means sticking with the X-Files or loving you. It's bad enough I have to defend myself to Bill, I certainly don't need to do the same with you." 

Mulder grinned a little. "Point taken. I'll try to curb my overdeveloped sense of guilt." 

"Good. And while you're curbing things, G-man, add doing laundry to the list. You aren't supposed to be engaging in any strenuous activity." 

Mulder's eyes rolled skyward. "*Strenuous*? Scully, I carried a plastic basket down two flights of stairs and plugged some quarters in the machine! Now unless you're concerned I might break a nail..." 

"Very funny. All I'm saying is that you're supposed to be resting, Mulder. If everything looks good when Nick checks you out on Tuesday we'll be extending that to include sunning yourself on a tropical beach and maybe a few moonlit strolls." She took a bite of her sandwich, sensuously licking a blob of mayonnaise off the tip of her thumb and gazing at him from beneath her lashes. "I want you in good shape, love." 

Mulder's hand snaked out to clamp around her wrist, eliciting a startled gasp as he leaned over to draw the digit between his own lips. He slowly swirled his tongue around the pad as if helping to remove the already non-existent condiment, finally releasing it with a wet smack and smirking at Scully's suddenly flushed cheeks. 

"Trust me, babe. All the important equipment is in perfect working order." 

Never one to be thrown off balance for long, Scully rallied. "That calls for an expert opinion, Mulder. I'll have to judge for myself."  
  


Georgetown  
Monday  
3:12 p.m.  
  


This time the knock caught Scully in the midst of folding a pile of clothes she'd retrieved from the dryer. She stared at the front door, a pair of shorts in one hand and a crease marring the pale skin of her brow. The middle of the afternoon on what would normally be a workday. The list of possible callers was short, and the prime candidate not someone she cared to cope with right now. With a grimace of resignation, she laid the shorts to one side, squared her shoulders, and pulled open the door... 

To reveal a tall figure, dark hair tucked under a reversed baseball cap and hazel eyes glittering with mischief. 

"Good afternoon, ma'am, I'm selling magazine subscriptions and..." 

His little speech cut off with a grunt as Scully wrapped her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug. Softness replaced the teasing edge to Grey's voice. 

"Glad to see you too, darlin'." 

Scully released him and stepped back, tilting her head up to give him a saucy grin. "I'm just relieved it wasn't my brother at the door. I'd have hugged even the pizza guy." 

Grey snorted and moved past her, shaking his head. "Ahh, yes. I presume you mean the warm and ever supportive Bill Scully that I've heard Fox mention a time or two." 

Scully pursed her lips to hide the smile. "That's the one." 

"I thought he lived in California. In town for a little holiday cheer?" Grey asked, his eyes panning the room before he dropped down onto the couch. 

Scully resumed her own seat by the laundry basket and pulled out one of Mulder's gray tee shirts. "An unexpected visit," she confirmed, arching a brow. "As is yours. I thought you'd be back in Raleigh, busy nabbing bad guys and keeping the city safe." 

Grey wrinkled his nose. "Yeah. So did I. Unfortunately, my back hasn't exactly cooperated. My doctor has me riding a desk for the next week before he'll declare me fit for duty. So, I thought I'd check up on you and Fox." 

Scully sucked in her bottom lip and concentrated on folding. "That's nice. So you came all the way up here just to see *us*. I'm flattered." 

Grey's head swung sharply in her direction and he studied her carefully controlled expression for a moment before breaking into an embarrassed grin. "All right, all right. So I also drove up to see Kristen. I'm bringing her back with me to spend Thanksgiving and meet my family." 

Scully's mouth turned up. "Thought maybe she was on the agenda somewhere." 

"I'll bet you did. She's got to work late tonight and all day tomorrow so we can't drive home until Wednesday. I was hoping I could stay at Fox's place." 

"I'm sure he wouldn't care, but why not just stay here?" Scully suggested. "The extra bed is all made up and, unlike  
Mulder's, I can guarantee the sheets are clean." 

"Well, if you're sure you don't mind..." Grey said a little dubiously. 

"Not at all. If everything goes as planned, Mulder and I will be on a flight to Cancun tomorrow afternoon and you'll have the place all to yourself tomorrow night." 

Grey stripped the cap from his head and finger combed his hair. "Speaking of which... Where *is* Fox?" 

Scully placed the last shirt into the basket and set it aside, glancing down the hallway toward the closed bedroom door. "Sleeping. He's been out for nearly two hours so I imagine he'll be surfacing soon." 

All traces of humor left Grey's face and he leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. "How's he doing, Dana? Really." 

Scully leaned back and sighed. "I guess that depends on the perspective. *I* think he's doing amazingly well. When you consider how close he came, that less than a week ago he was still in the hospital, his progress has been phenomenal. His lungs are weak, and he still has an occasional round of coughing, but all traces of the pneumonia are gone. He's even managed to pick up a little of the weight he lost." 

Grey, who had been listening carefully and nodding at her assessment, lifted his head. "I take it my brother is less satisfied with his progress than you are." 

Scully blew a harsh puff of air out her nose and shook her head. "To put it mildly. From Mulder's viewpoint, if the pneumonia is gone he should immediately bounce back to normal. He doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that the virus severely weakened him and he's going to require time to heal. His stamina is virtually non-existent right now -- even the slightest activity like reading or using the computer wears him out. But he refuses to give in and rest until his body finally makes the decision for him and he crashes." 

"Which just serves to frustrate the hell out of him," Grey observed. 

"Couldn't have put it better myself," Scully said wryly. "I'm hoping the change in scenery and a lot of sunshine will lift his spirits." She glanced at her watch. "I've got one more load of clothes in the dryer, Grey. I'll be right back." 

Grey watched her gather an empty basket and scoot out the door. He sank back into the cushions, staring up at the ceiling and drinking in silence so deep he could hear the faint tick of the wall clock marking time. After several minutes he stood and wandered over to a bookshelf, smiling a little at the mishmash of medical reference and psychology texts with books on the paranormal and pulp romances. His eye lit on a photo framed in silver, and his hand gently lifted it for closer inspection. 

Fox and Dana, seated on a porch swing, his arms loosely cradling her against his chest, her head tipped back on his shoulder. Dana's sapphire eyes bore an almost sleepy contentment, the corners of her mouth a gentle curve. Fox's expression was...incandescent. The countenance of someone granted his fondest wish, the deepest desire of his heart. The face of a child. 

Grey swallowed the inexplicable lump in his throat and gently replaced the photo. He wandered across the room and padded quietly down the hall to the bedroom, door slightly ajar. He carefully pressed his palm to the wood so that it swung a little wider on silent hinges. Fox sprawled across the bed, lips slightly parted and his deep, rhythmic breathing loud in the stillness. Grey grinned. Sure didn't look like he'd be waking anytime soon. 

He'd just shut the door when Dana's phone rang. Grey hesitated, then moved quickly to scoop it from its cradle, hoping the noise wouldn't disturb his brother. 

"Hello?" 

Silence, then a hesitant female voice. "Fox?" 

"Ahh, no, this isn't Fox," Grey said uncomfortably. "It's his brother, Grey. Can I take a message?" 

"Well, it's about time I had the pleasure of talking with you! This is Maggie Scully, Grey. Dana's mom." 

Grey relaxed at the warmth in her tone. "Hello, Mrs. Scully. It's nice to finally meet you -- so to speak." 

"Please, Grey, call me Maggie. In some ways I feel I already know you. I didn't realize you were coming up for a visit." 

"It was kind of spontaneous. I just got here a few minutes ago." 

"Are you there alone? Where are Dana and Fox?" Maggie's question communicated a frission of worry. 

"No, they're here," Grey reassured her. "Fox is sleeping and Dana's downstairs doing laundry. She should be back any minute, if you'd like her to call you." 

"That's not necessary, you can just give her a message. Tell her to come by at 5 instead of 5:30. The baby goes to bed by seven and I know she'll want time with him." Maggie paused only a moment before plunging on. "Are you free for dinner tonight, Grey? I'd love it if you would join us." 

"Well..." Grey fumbled uneasily for an excuse, came up with none. 

"Please, I'd love to meet you. Fox has become a part of our family, and I know how important you are to him," Maggie coaxed. She laughed. "And as Fox will tell you, I make a mean pot roast." 

Grey chuckled, once again put at ease by her kindness. "How could I possibly refuse?" 

"Wonderful. We'll see you at 5." 

Grey bent over to replace the phone, nearly dropping it when Fox's sleepy voice startled him. 

"I like to sneak up behind Scully when she's on the phone and give her a kiss. Glad I controlled that impulse." 

"Sorry to disappoint," Grey replied, grinning. "C'mere." 

He pulled Mulder into a quick hug, then watched him flop onto the couch, stifling a yawn. His brother's eyes still had the slightly glassy, unfocused cast of someone not quite awake and his hair gave the appearance of being run through an eggbeater. 

"Sorry if the phone woke you," Grey said, taking the chair Dana had vacated. 

Mulder scowled. "I'm glad it did. Feels like all I do is sleep these days. And *don't* (he held up a warning hand) tell me that my body needs lots of rest to recover. I get enough of that from my personal physician." He squinted at Grey. "What brings you up for a visit? You seeing Kristen?" 

"Why is it so improbable that I could be up here to visit you and Dana?" Grey asked petulantly. 

"I'll give you three words -- smart, blonde and beautiful. While Scully and I may fit two of those, the third leaves us out." 

"Scully and *you*? Which one is supposed to apply to you, little brother?" Grey asked, deadpan. 

"Nice! Where's Scully and who was on the phone?" 

A rattle of keys and Scully nudged open the door, the now full basket balanced on her hip. Mulder, obviously more awake, popped up and relieved her of her burden, depositing it back in the bedroom and then joining her on the couch. 

"I was just about to tell Fox that your mom called," Grey told Scully. "She was a bit startled to have me answer the phone, but I explained." 

Mulder's lips twitched. "If I know Maggie, she wasted no time making you feel welcome. She's been pumping me for information ever since I told her about you." 

"Well she's about to get it straight from the source," Grey replied mildly. "She insisted I join y'all for dinner tonight. Hope you don't mind." 

Scully smiled at his reserve. "Of course we don't mind!" 

Mulder's eyebrows drew together. "Speak for yourself! Personally, I was hoping to talk my way out of this dinner on the grounds that my brother was in town." 

Scully dug her elbow into his side. "Mulder! Knowing my mother, she's probably cooking a pot roast just for you!" 

Mulder ignored Grey's snuffle of amusement. "It's not your mother I'm trying to avoid, babe." 

Several disjointed pieces snapped together in Grey's mind with a nearly audible click. "Bill -- your brother... He's staying at your mom's house? He'll be there tonight?" he asked, both eyebrows climbing up to hide beneath the sweep of his hair. 

"Yes. Bill, his wife, Tara, and my nephew, Matthew are staying at Mom's while they're in town for Thanksgiving," Scully confirmed. 

"It's not too late for you," Mulder intoned gloomily. "You can still back out. I'm sure Jerry Springer is on -- you could enjoy plenty of verbal abuse without ever having to leave this couch." 

"Mulder." Scully gave him what Grey knew he termed "the Scully Death Stare" and another small jab to the ribs. 

Grey's smile widened to show more teeth, looking far more like a shark circling its prey than a man expressing good humor. "A chance to finally meet Bill? Oh, no, little brother, I wouldn't miss this. Not for the world."  
  


Baltimore  
Monday  
5:03 p.m.  
  


When Maggie Scully opened the door, golden light, a rush of warm air, and delicious smells spilled onto the front porch. 

"Hi, honey! Glad you could make it," she greeted, giving her daughter a buss on the cheek as Scully stepped across the threshold. 

She then examined Mulder from head to toe, the crinkling of her forehead indicating dissatisfaction. "Fox! It's wonderful to see you, but you look a bit like death warmed over! How are you feeling, sweetheart?" 

"I'm actually feeling much better, Maggie - especially if I'm smelling what I suspect I am," Mulder replied. 

Grey tipped his chin down to conceal a smile as Maggie tugged his brother into a hug and kiss. No wonder Fox spoke of Dana's mother with a reverence that was practically spiritual - her brand of easy affection made quite a contrast to Teena Mulder's cool distance. Before he could complete the thought, she had his hand sandwiched between her own and was guiding him inside. 

"I don't need an introduction to you, Grey! You and Fox certainly bear a strong resemblance," she said warmly. 

"If you become confused, ma'am, just remember I'm the good-looking one," Grey replied, giving his brother a sidelong smirk. 

"Definitely not the funny one," Mulder retorted as Maggie chuckled. 

"Hang up your coats, you three, and go into the living room. Tara and Matty are already there, and I'll see if I can find Bill." 

Scully led the way into a large, brightly-lit room dominated by a stone fireplace. A blonde woman reclined in an overstuffed chair, watching a tow-headed toddler surrounded by toy cars and trucks. She sprang to her feet, smiling. 

"Dana!" 

Mulder looked on as the two embraced, but a moment later Tara released Scully and drew him into a quick hug. 

"How are you, Fox? We heard you've been pretty sick." 

"I'm doing well, thanks, Tara," Mulder replied, accepting the gesture with minimal discomfort. "I'd like you to meet my brother, Grey. Grey, this is Tara." 

Mulder turned, Grey and Tara's polite exchange receding to an unintelligible buzz when his gaze landed on Scully, sprawled on a thick Oriental rug with Matthew on her lap. The little boy was babbling enthusiastically as he demonstrated a miniature semi truck. Scully listened with rapt attention, one hand curled around his chubby tummy and the other dutifully manipulating a jeep. 

The upward twist of his lips belied the sharp pain that blindsided him. Mulder watched dumbly, reminding himself that Scully's infertility was an established fact, a crisis they'd somehow weathered. Though it would always be a part of her, Scully refused to let it define her. As for himself, he'd made peace with the stark reality that she would never have her own children. 

He'd just failed to consider that she'd never have *his* children. 

Scully, sensing his gaze, brought her eyes up and Mulder saw immediately that she knew \-- that their highly attuned nonverbal communication laid bare his morose thoughts. For what seemed an eternity, blue eyes remained fused with hazel and he could feel her sorrow as keenly as his own. 

Scully's smile was the brilliance of sunshine in the wake of a storm. She dropped the toy and reached out, capturing his hand and pulling him down beside her. 

"Hey, Matty. This is my best friend, Fox." 

Grey sat down on a chair across from Tara, looking on as his brother and Scully submitted to Matthew's garbled instructions for play. Of course, Fox immersed himself in short order, delighting the child by fashioning a crude tunnel from several picture books and some "off road" terrain with two throw pillows. Scully eventually lost track of the game, which seemed perfectly comprehensible to Mulder and Matthew, and scooted over to prop her back against the couch, content to observe. 

Grey leaned over. "Now I know what to get him for Christmas," he laughed quietly. 

Matthew chortled as Mulder engineered an earthquake, causing the tunnel to collapse on a hapless Ferrari. 

Scully tilted her head back, smiling wistfully. "He's great with kids." 

So much left unspoken, but Grey understood. Even Tara dragged her eyes from the activity on the floor, shooting Scully a look of sympathy before they skittered uncomfortably away. 

"Bill!" she exclaimed, a kernel of relief in the name. "There you are!" 

Grey saw his brother's relaxed slouch turn rigid. Mulder abandoned the truck he'd sent careening off a throw pillow cliff and struggled to his feet, dusting off his jeans. Grey's eyes darted over to the doorway, eager for a glimpse of the man he'd only heard about. For a split second, he caught an unguarded expression - eyes narrowed, lip curled - before Bill assumed a bland smile of welcome. 

"Hey, Short Stuff. Long time no see." 

Mulder extended his hand and Bill shook it firmly, raking his gaze up and down his form before speaking. 

"Hi, Mulder. Geez, Mom was right. You do look like shit." 

A light tone, meant to sound like good natured ribbing. But Grey clearly detected the maliciousness beneath the fa�de. So that's how Bill operated, hmm? Grey rose slowly to his feet, pasting on his own smile. 

"Thanks, Bill. Actually, looking like shit is an improvement," Mulder replied mildly. 

Scully slipped her arm around Mulder's waist and glared at her brother. "You promised, Bill," she growled. 

Bill's eyes widened. "What'd I say?" 

Grey stepped forward, bringing himself to Bill's attention. Tara, who'd stood to the side, her focus fluttering nervously between the other three, leaped at the diversion. 

"Bill, this is Grey, Fox's brother." 

Grey shook hands politely, inwardly amused by Bill's appraising stare and his own burst of testosterone in response. 

*This town ain't big enough for the both of us* he thought crazily, and bit the inside of his cheek to abort a snicker. 

"Nice to meet you," Bill said neutrally, giving Grey's hand an obligatory three pumps before releasing it. Grey found himself watching to see if Bill would wipe that hand off on his pants, almost disappointed when he merely reached around to cup his wife's shoulder. 

"You too. Fox has told me so much about you, I've been anxious to put a face with the name." Grey kept his tone conversational, his face guileless. Bill wasn't the only one who knew how to use doublespeak - let him interpret *that* as he may. 

Bill's jaw dropped and he appeared speechless for a moment before his brows plunged. Any reply was cut short by Maggie's cheerful call to come to the table, though Grey sensed the proverbial line had been drawn in the sand. 

The dining table was laden - pot roast with all the trimmings, a huge bowl of salad, and fresh bread. Everyday dishes instead of fine china, food served family style, and Matthew jabbering from his booster seat all encouraged relaxed dinner conversation. Mulder accepted Maggie's efforts to reverse his weight loss with amused tolerance and Grey patiently fielded questions about his life and family in North Carolina. Bill contributed little to the dialogue, though he displayed more than a casual interest in Grey's answers. 

"It's wonderful you and Fox found each other after all this time," Tara remarked, retrieving the carrot slices that Matthew had attempted to hide under a napkin and placing them back on his plate. 

"God works in mysterious ways," Maggie agreed, reaching over to give Mulder's hand a squeeze. "To lose a sister and then gain a brother." 

"Except he doesn't believe in God," Bill pointed out. "Do you, Mulder?" 

Mulder's face remained calm but Grey saw the fingers of the hand Mrs. Scully had touched curl into a fist. "No, I don't." He smiled at Scully and then Maggie. "But I respect that faith in others." 

Maggie's pursed lips didn't hide their upward tilt. "You know what they say, Fox. It doesn't matter if you don't believe in God. He believes in you." 

"Guess that makes God the ultimate believer in extreme possibilities," Scully murmured, looking at him slyly through her lashes. 

Mulder's eyes danced and his shoulders lost their rigidity. Bill, on the other hand, looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon - just a step up from Matthew, who took exception to Tara's third repositioning of his carrots and dissolved into tears. 

"Sorry! He refused to nap today," Tara apologized, struggling to be heard over tearful repetitions of "Yucky!" and "No!" as she scooped the kicking toddler out of his seat. 

"Here, honey, let me take him," Maggie said, standing. "I'll put him to bed. You go ahead and finish your dinner." 

Tara hesitated only long enough for Matthew to lean willingly toward Maggie's outstretched arms, then surrendered him with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Mom." 

"He's usually very happy and content," she sighed, sinking back into her own chair and picking up her fork. "He's just a bear to be around when he hasn't gotten enough sleep." 

"Must be genetic - OW!" Mulder bent over to rub his shin. "That's going to leave a bruise, Scully." 

"Serves you right. You're not exactly Mr. Congeniality in the morning yourself, Mulder," she said pointedly. 

Tara grinned at their banter, while Bill's jaw clenched. 

"So, where is it you two are headed?" he asked, shoving aside his empty plate and propping his folded arms on the table. "Just so I at least know where my little sister is on Thanksgiving." 

Scully's lips compressed to a thin line. "Bill." 

The innocent look again, and Bill held up both hands in defense. "What? I'm not supposed to ask where you're going? Is it a big secret?" 

Her brows drew together. "No! I just..." 

"Cancun," Mulder answered quietly. 

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Tara said enthusiastically. "I could do with a little sunshine myself right about now! I'm sure you two will have a great time." 

Bill huffed and muttered something under his breath. Mulder's gaze darted to his face and he opened his mouth as if to speak, then just clamped his lips shut and glanced away. Scully showed less restraint. 

"What did you say?" 

Bill met her challenge defiantly. "I said it better be a damn paradise, considering it's taking you away from your family on a holiday." 

Scully shoved back her chair and pushed herself upright, leaning across the table. "You can't do it, can you? Can't put aside your own stubbornness for one night and be civil." 

Mulder lay his hand on her shoulder. "Scully." 

She ignored him. "Why can't you see..." 

"*You're* the blind person here, Dana," Bill retorted, mimicking her posture from across the table and thrusting his face mere inches from hers. "I just keep hoping that eventually you'll wipe the stardust out of your eyes and start seeing the facts." 

"Bill, you wouldn't know the facts if they bit you in the ass," Scully snapped. "Did you ever stop to consider that the idea of spending Thanksgiving with *you* might have spurred me to leave town?" 

"Scully, DON'T!" 

The anguish pulled her up short, quenching the fury that had momentarily severed the connection between her brain and her mouth. Mulder, white-faced, slowly shook his head. 

"I don't expect to change what HE thinks of me," he said softly, taking the napkin from his lap and laying it on the table. "But I'd certainly appreciate it if you refrained from proving him right." 

Scully gaped, speechless, as he got up and walked out of the room. "Mulder, I..." When he didn't turn back she cast one more venomous glare at Bill and hurried after him. 

Tara's eyes lifted from the contemplation of her plate to skim Grey's before dropping back down again. "I'm going to start the dishes," she murmured, collecting several serving platters and fleeing to the kitchen. 

Grey looked around at the empty chairs. "Well, I'll say one thing for you, Bill," he drawled. "You sure know how to clear a room." 

Bill sat down and glowered. "Spare me. You came on the scene six months ago - I've been here for six *years*. You don't have the slightest idea what your brother has done to this family." 

Grey snorted. "Fox was wrong. You aren't pig-headed, just plain self-absorbed! If you'd stop for a minute and look at the complete picture instead of filtering it through your own petty concerns you just might learn something - about Fox *and* your sister." 

"I've learned enough! I've watched him drag Dana through hell and back again, sacrificing Melissa along the way. Is it self-absorbed to want to spare my mother the constant worry and heartache? To want my sister in a profession that doesn't involve taking lives and risking her own? If he were any kind of a man, he'd have insisted she abandon his meaningless quest years ago!" 

Grey laughed. "How well do you know your sister? Because I've got news for you, buddy. No one drags that woman anywhere she doesn't want to go -- at least if they want to live to see another day! If your head wasn't stuck in the sand you might have noticed that his so-called meaningless quest has become hers." Grey's voice dropped, softened. "And that the kind of love they share comes along once in a lifetime, if you're lucky." 

Bill grunted. "If you call that luck, count me out." 

Grey's eyes glinted dangerously. "But that's the problem, isn't it? You won't allow them to count you out. Or didn't your mother ever teach you that if you can't say something nice, you should shut the hell up?" 

Bill appeared stunned, then infuriated. "There's a family resemblance, all right," he sneered. "You're just like him." 

Grey slouched back and grinned. "Why, thank you, Bill. I believe that's the nicest thing you've said to me." 

Bill's hands twitched as if longing to wrap themselves around Grey's neck, but he pressed them to his sides. "I'm going to check on Matty," he muttered, stomping out of the room. 

Grey folded his arms, a smile still lingering on his lips. "Round one goes to the good ole boy from Carolina," he murmured. "And the crowd goes wild..."  
  


En Route to Georgetown  
Monday  
7:48 p.m. 

"Are you warm enough?" 

"I'm fine, thanks." 

Shrouded in the shadows of the back seat, Grey winced. He numbered that the fourth painfully polite exchange since leaving Maggie Scully's house, and he was beginning to wish for a good, old fashioned knock down, drag out brawl to ease the tension. Dana's fingers had a choke hold on the steering wheel, her eyes periodically shifting from the road to Fox and back again. Even in the dim glow of passing streetlights, Grey could read exhaustion in the lines and planes of his brother's face. But Fox maintained his ramrod straight posture, refusing even to rest his head on the seatback. 

By the time Grey wandered into the living room, Maggie had returned from tucking in Matthew, interrupting a rather heated discussion between Mulder and Scully. They'd passed the remainder of the evening in courteous, if somewhat stilted conversation. Bill's shifting facial expressions occasionally betrayed his animosity, but in Maggie's presence he held his tongue. Mulder's flagging energy and drooping eyelids provided a convenient excuse to cut the visit short. 

"Mulder, I said I was sorry. I certainly didn't mean to upset you," Scully finally said, more impatience than contrition in her voice. 

"Scully, I'm tired, and I really don't want to talk about this now," he replied, his own tone heavy with fatigue but retaining a sharp edge. 

"You may not want to discuss it, but I'm tired of feeling your anger." 

Mulder sighed. "It's not you, Scully. I'm mad at myself." 

"Mulder, my brother acted like a complete jerk! Why on earth would you be mad at yourself?" 

Mulder scrubbed his face with both palms, then ran one hand through his hair. "I should never have gone tonight, Scully. It had disaster written all over it from the beginning, and I *knew* it. If I hadn't been there you might have been able to spend a relatively conflict-free evening with your family. Bringing me into contact with Bill is like waving a piece of raw meat in front of a lion and telling it not to pounce. He's incapable of accepting me as anything but the devil incarnate, and that's not going to change." He tipped his head to rest against the cool window glass. "Better to count me out of any family get-togethers if he's present." 

"So what are you saying here, Mulder?" Scully asked tightly. "That because of Bill's tunnel vision I can never share a holiday with you *and* my family?"" 

"That's an unreasonable line to draw," Grey spoke up quietly from the back, knowing he should opt out of the argument but unable to keep silent. 

"Stay out of this, Grey," Mulder snapped, turning to glare at his brother. "You didn't exactly help matters tonight. I don't know what you said to him after I left the table, but he looked ready to chew tacks." 

"He's right, Mulder," Scully said. "I refuse to let Bill dictate my life. I'm tired of the constant guilt trips." 

"So you're going to kill the relationship?" Mulder demanded. "Just like that?" 

"I'm not..." 

"You *are*, Scully! You were in the process of digging the grave at dinner! All you did was lend credence to Bill's claims that I'm a home wrecker!" 

Scully pulled into a parking space across from her building and shut off the engine, then turned deliberately to face him. "Some relationships aren't worth the heartache, Mulder. Bill makes my decision for me when he insists on behaving like a pig-headed fool." 

Mulder tossed his head in frustration, staring out the window in a blatant evasion of Scully's eyes. "It isn't all Bill's fault, you know. He's not the only one to disapprove of your lifestyle -- just the only one left to vocalize it." 

Scully's eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that mean?" 

Mulder reached for the door handle. "Forget it." 

Her fingers buried themselves in an iron grip on his leather jacket. "What. Did. You. Mean?" 

Mulder shrugged off her grip, scowling. "Your father never approved or supported your choice to enter the Bureau, Scully. I'd say it's more than likely he heard about your crazy partner who hunts aliens. I'm sure he made his feelings abundantly clear. You've as much as admitted that his disapproval caused you to doubt his love." 

"Shut up, Mulder." 

Mulder heard the warning, but exhaustion and his own guilt precluded him from heeding it. "All I'm saying is that you're convicting Bill of the same crime that you absolved your father of." 

"You have no right to judge my father," Scully replied icily. "At least my father didn't knowingly allow..." She bit off the words before they could tumble from her lips, horrified. 

Mulder went very still. "Finish it, Scully." 

"Fox, let's go inside. The car is starting to get cold," Grey inserted, his stomach churning at the sight of Scully's expression. 

Mulder ignored him -- or perhaps never heard. His eyes bore into Scully with desperate intensity. "What did my father allow, Scully? I know you've been keeping something from me, something you learned when you were with Cancerman. Tell me." 

Scully's eyes flooded with tears. "Please, Mulder. I don't want... It shouldn't be this way." 

"What way should it be? When is it going to be any less painful? I'm not going to beg you. TELL ME." 

"He said... He said your father knew about the genetic manipulations performed on you and Samantha. That he was convinced to allow the experiment, and participated willingly." 

Mulder recoiled as if struck. Even in the muted lighting they could see the color drain from his face. He licked his lips. "He knew? He *knew*? No, that's a lie! He wouldn't..." 

His voice seemed to dry up, becoming wispy and insubstantial before evaporating entirely. He stared blankly at Scully, then abruptly flung open his door and lunged out. Grey and Scully watched him stumble over to lean against a tree, head bowed and shoulders curled. She pressed the backs of her fingers against her lips, her eyes never leaving Mulder. Submerged in her own misery, Grey's gentle utterance might as well have been a scream. 

"It's done, Dana. Stop beating yourself up and go do some damage control." 

His hand descended on her shoulder, thumb rubbing soothingly through the bulk of her coat. Scully leaned her cheek against the warmth, blinking rapidly as she fought for composure. 

"I've been trying to find the right time, the right way to tell him ever since he came home from the hospital. I knew how much this would hurt him, and he's been so weak. I can't believe I just unloaded it on him like that." 

"Dana, I learned early on during my marriage that loving someone also means knowing all the right buttons to push. Unless I'm mistaken, you weren't the only one to hit a few tonight." He ducked his head so that she was forced to see his face. "I'm going for a little walk. Give me a key so I can get in later." 

Scully pulled her keys from the ignition, but juggled them in her palm so that they jingled rhythmically. "Maybe I'm the one that should be taking that walk," she said ruefully. "Seems a bit like sending the arsonist to put out the fire." 

Grey filched the keys from her hand and got out of the car. A moment later he'd opened her door and was leaning inside. "Darlin' we both know the real arsonist smokes Morleys. And I think you may just be the only one with the expertise to handle this blaze." 

Leaving her no chance to protest, he cast a final, troubled look at his brother and walked off in the opposite direction. 

Mulder was shivering, his entire body vibrating, though whether from cold or emotion Scully wasn't sure. She lay a cautious hand on his shoulder, keeping her voice low and soothing as if she were calming a wild animal. 

"Mulder, it's freezing. Come inside and we'll talk." 

He reacted like a wild animal -- injured, cornered, and dangerous. "So now you're ready to talk? Don't do me any damn favors!" 

Scully clutched at her temper, which squirmed to break free. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you until now. You were so sick, I just wanted to give you some time to heal." 

Mulder's face twisted into a barely recognizable mask. "I had a right to know! How could you have kept something like this from me?" 

Scully mentally opened her fingers and let loose. "Does the word *Tunguska* mean anything to you, Mulder? Or are you the only one allowed to withhold information in the name of protection?" she snapped. 

"That was different!" 

"How? How is it any different?" 

"That was the job, this is personal! My father..." The word transformed, breaking midway into a sob. The shivering became shudders, frightening Scully with their severity. She mutely reached out to pluck one chilled hand from the tree and tugged. His fury spent, Mulder followed her complacently across the street and into the building, not even mustering a lewd remark when she reached into his pocket for keys. Once she'd deposited him on the couch, Scully reluctantly left long enough to make some tea. 

He sat poised on the edge of the cushions, the cup cradled in his hands and an afghan draped across his shoulders. Scully took her place by his side, waiting. She knew that although he gave the appearance of a man contemplating the deeper mysteries of his Doc Martens, Mulder's brain and soul were struggling heroically to comprehend the scope of his father's betrayal. 

"How would he have done it, Scully?" he asked without meeting her eyes. "This...this dabbling with my DNA. How did the bastard pull it off?" 

Scully selected her words carefully. "I can only speculate, Mulder. But I'd guess something was done to your father's sperm, some kind of drug or procedure that modified the chromosomes and changed the genetic code." She shook her head. "Five years ago I'd have sworn it was impossible, that we don't possess that kind of technology. But now, after what we've seen..." 

"It makes a terrible kind of sense," Mulder replied woodenly, rotating the mug in tiny circles so that the liquid swirled and steamed. "Remember my mother's letter? She couldn't figure out how she kept getting pregnant in spite of using birth control. Guess dear old dad was sabotaging the contraception." 

Scully ran her hand up and down the taut muscles of his back, aching at the bitterness in his voice. Mulder set the barely touched mug on the coffee table and buried his face in his hands. 

"How could he do it, Scully? He let people experiment on his own children! No wonder he looked at me as if I were a leper." 

Scully closed her eyes against tears as Spender's oddly empathetic words floated through her mind. 

*Pity that Bill could never reconcile his fatherly pride with the guilt over his capitulation.* 

"I can't pretend to understand it, Mulder," she murmured, pressing harder against a particularly large knot near the base of his neck. "I can only say I'm sorry. Not just for what your father did, but for telling you like that. Please believe that I would never willingly hurt you." 

Mulder turned huge, shell-shocked eyes on her, teeth tearing viscously at his lower lip. "They took Samantha -- the experiment must have been a success. What..." He faltered, swallowing hard. "What else has been done to me? I don't think I know who...*what* I am." 

Scully guided him backward and he folded against her, his head tucked into the curve of her shoulder. "You're just what you've always been, love," she said, trailing her fingers through his hair. "The same honorable, brilliant, passionate, exasperating man I loved yesterday, and will still love tomorrow. I don't give a damn about the process. Just the end result." 

Whether it was the power of her declaration, or simply that the numbness wore off, he began to weep hot, silent tears. They seared her skin like fire, and she cursed Bill Mulder for each and every one. 

"Let it go, love," she murmured, her own voice unsteady. "Let it all go."  
  


Georgetown  
Monday  
9:56 p.m.  
  


Grey eased the door open, flinching at the high pitched creak. He stepped inside and eased it shut, sighing appreciatively as warmth penetrated the bubble of cold air that still clung to his skin. Stripping off his coat, he peered into the living room, squinting against the dim illumination. Fox was curled pretzel-like on the couch, and though Grey couldn't make out the details of his face, his deep, uniform breaths testified that he was asleep. 

"Grey? I'm in the kitchen." 

He followed the hushed voice and the rich smell of chocolate to the source, finding Dana at the kitchen table. Her head was propped on one hand and a half-filled mug of cocoa rested near the other. Grey attempted to analyze her features for a clue, but gave up when confronted by a tangle of emotions too complex to unravel. 

"There's more in the pan," she said, inclining her head toward the stove. "Probably still warm." 

Grey searched for a mug, finding the correct cupboard on the second try, and poured himself the remainder of the hot chocolate. He took a long swallow, grateful for the tendrils of warmth that seemed to spread throughout his chilled limbs. Sinking into a chair across from Dana, he curbed the impulse to browbeat her for information. 

"I notice the smoke detectors are quiet," he said, taking another sip. 

She looked at him blankly for a moment before understanding, and then amusement seeped onto her face. "True. But that doesn't mean there aren't still a few smoldering piles of ash to contend with." 

Grey ran one hand over his brow, massaging his temples. "The whole time I was walking, worrying about Fox and his ability to cope with this nightmare, I couldn't help feeling relief as well. Like the guy that misses the plane and then finds out it crashed. Some brother, huh?" 

"You're only human, Grey. Do you know how many times I've looked at Mulder's childhood and thanked God for my own? Believe me, I understand." 

"And what about you? How are you holding up?" Grey asked, stretching his hand across the table to lay it over hers. 

Scully hissed at the contact of his frigid flesh. "You're half frozen! You didn't have to leave, Grey. You know he doesn't have any secrets from you." 

Grey lifted one shoulder. "I realize that. But no one needs an audience when dealing with news like that. I hoped that if it were just the two of you he wouldn't hold back." He leaned closer. "And you never answered my question." 

Scully smiled weakly. "I'm not the one who just found out his father used him as a guinea pig." 

"No. You're the one who had to break the news. Not a big step up, if you ask me. So I repeat -- how are you?" 

Scully closed her eyes against the sudden rush of tears. "It hurts to see him hurt," she said softly. "I could cheerfully kill Bill Mulder and I resent the hell out of him for already being dead." 

"Well said," Grey replied, his fingers tightening over hers before he withdrew his hand. "I don't think I'll ever understand the man. I see Fox's scars -- the guilt, the lack of self-esteem -- and I know Bill is directly responsible. And yet, I can't shake the memory of the way his face would light up whenever he talked about Fox." 

"Pride is useless if it's never expressed to the one who matters," Scully said darkly. She took a deep breath and blew it out, rotating her head until her neck gave a satisfying crack. "He's completely exhausted. Tonight pushed him way past his reserves. I'd worried that this vacation might be too much for him, but I'm beginning to think it's just what we both need." 

"Speaking of which, I'd be glad to give y'all a lift tomorrow. That way you don't have to leave a car at the airport." 

"You'd have to take us to the doctor first," Scully cautioned. "We were planning to go straight to the airport after Mulder's check-up." 

"My services are entirely at your disposal, ma'am," Grey replied, adding with a sly smile, "At least as long as Kristen is tied up at work." 

Scully grinned, her spirits lifting. "Don't worry. We know our place in the grand scheme of things." The grin receded to a smile. "Thanks, Grey. You seem to have a knack for cheering me up." 

"No problem, darlin'. Now what do you say I help you get him out of my bed and into yours?" He waggled his eyebrows, purposely imitating his brother's patented leer. 

Scully snickered at his theatrics. "*That* is an offer I can't refuse."  
  


Baltimore  
Tuesday  
8:47 a.m. 

Bill stood at the French doors, sipping coffee while watching Tara push Matthew on the old tire swing hanging from the maple tree. Matty's blond head tipped backward, his sparkling eyes and open mouth attesting to the delighted squeals muted by panes of glass. Entranced by the sight, his mother's voice nearly made Bill jump. 

"Penny for your thoughts, sweetheart," she said, slipping an arm around his waist and turning her gaze from her grandson to her son. 

Bill shook his head, mouth curving. "Just can't believe how big he's getting. Seems like just yesterday I could hold him on one arm. Now he's walking, talking, and becoming his own little person." 

"Time has an uncanny way of speeding up as you age," Maggie mused, rubbing little circles on the small of his back. "When you're a child the days seem to pass as slow as molasses, each one its own lifetime. But by the time you reach my age..." She chuckled softly. "The days just slip by like water through a sieve. Useless to try and clutch at them --if you're wise you just learn to let them flow." 

She gave him a final pat and pulled back to capture his eyes. "As for becoming his own person, well, children have a way of doing that early on. After a frustrating time of trying to fit you into Missy's mold I came to see that you each had to follow your own path, and not one of my choosing. My job was to love and support each of you kids no matter where that path might lead." Maggie huffed, a rueful twist to her lips. "Your father struggled with that part." 

Bill's brows angled downward. "What are you trying to say, Mom?" 

To his confusion, she collected his empty mug, walked over to the sink, and began washing breakfast dishes. "I need to ask a favor, Billy. I've got an errand for you to run." 

Shaking his head a little, scrambling to make sense of the abrupt change of subject, Bill walked over and picked up a towel. 

"Sure, Mom. You need something from the store?" 

"Dana had asked me if she could borrow that old straw hat of mine. The Mexican sun is awfully strong for her fair complexion and she's likely to need all the protection she can get. I forgot to give it to her last night." 

He was already shaking his head, but she ignored the motion and the accompanying scowl. "You should be able to catch them at Georgetown Medical. Fox had a 10 a.m. appointment and they planned to go straight to the airport after that." 

"Mom, you know I'd do anything for you. But in this case..." 

"It'll also give you a chance to apologize," Maggie interrupted, her placid expression transforming to iron determination. 

Bill reddened. "APOLOGIZE? What in God's name would I have to apologize for?" 

Amazingly, she ignored his irreverent usage of the Lord's name, choosing merely to dry her hands while pinning him with a cool stare. 

"I've raised four children, William. I'm not blind, nor am I stupid. If what went on at the dinner table last night was any indication of what occurred after I'd left the room, it would certainly explain why they cut their visit short. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?" 

Bill grit his teeth. "Fox Mulder has ruined Dana's life. He's repeatedly endangered her with his ridiculous quest and he's alienated her from our family. I can't help trying to make Dana come to her senses." 

Maggie slapped the towel down on the counter and stepped forward, infringing on his personal space. Bill unconsciously backtracked, startled by the intense anger in his mother's brown eyes. 

"You'll help it when you're in *my* home, William Scully. Fox was my guest, and I expected you to treat him as such. Dana's *job* has put her life in jeopardy, a job that she chose before ever meeting Fox. On the other hand, he's saved her more times than I care to think about. And for the *record*, the only one alienating Dana from this family is *you*." 

Bill started to scuff his toe into the ceramic tile, realized he must look like a recalcitrant 10-year-old, and folded his arms instead. "I don't see how you can defend him, Mom. The guy is a loser, plain and simple." 

Maggie sighed, her wrath obviously spent. "It's worse than that, Billy. I love him. But what's more important is that Dana loves him. And if you love her -- real love, and not just lip service -- you'll accept Fox Mulder as an integral part of her life and move on." 

When he continued to stare sullenly at the floor, Maggie sighed again and returned to the dishes. Sometimes it was painfully evident her children had inherited more of the Irish in Bill than just his red hair -- mulishness and a quick temper, for instance. She was pulled from her reverie by her son's muttered words. 

"I'll take the hat. I can't promise anything more." 

She let her eyes drift closed and bobbed her head, listening to him stomp up the stairs. A small concession, but sometimes you had to take what you could get.  
  


Georgetown Medical  
Tuesday  
10:38 a.m.  
  


"Looking good, Mulder. Looking very, very good." 

Nick Brewer rapidly flipped through the chart's pages, then placed it on the table and pulled out a penlight. Mulder submitted to the examination of his pupils and opened his mouth obediently, grimacing when Brewer removed the tongue depressor. 

"Can't they give those things a better flavor?" he complained. "It's like licking a tree." 

Brewer raised an eyebrow, slipping the ends of his stethoscope into his ears and warming the metal with his palm. "And you've licked a lot of trees in your lifetime? Breathe." 

Mulder rolled his eyes but inhaled, coughing once or twice after a particularly deep breath. Brewer's casual demeanor switched to grave concentration as he touched the scope to various points on Mulder's chest and back. Nodding in satisfaction, he pulled out the earpieces and looped the instrument around his neck, the ends brushing his psychedelic tie. 

"Still some crackles but you've made tremendous progress. The CAT scan was clear, and though still very low, your white count is recovering. Dana must be doing a good job of sitting on you." 

Scully, seated on a chair in the corner, inclined her head with a small grin. Mulder resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. 

"That's what the tests say," Brewer continued, leaning against the foot of the gurney and studying Mulder's face. "How do you *feel*?" 

"Sick and tired of being sick and tired," Mulder growled, his lip thrust out petulantly. "I'm good for virtually nothing right now, and it's making me crazy." 

Brewer snorted. "Hate to tell you, dude, but you'd better get used to it -- for a while, anyway. I know you've probably heard this a million times, but your body took an incredible beating. Only time and lots of rest will get you back to where you want to be." He shook his head, open amazement on his face. "Though I gotta say that your progress so far is way beyond my wildest expectations. You have an unusual capacity for healing." 

Brewer had turned to retrieve the chart, missing when Mulder flinched visibly. Scully, eagle-eyed as always, stood and walked to Mulder's side, tangling her fingers with his. 

"So, are we cleared for take off?" she asked lightly. "Our flight leaves in a couple hours." 

"I give you my blessing," Brewer replied as he scribbled furiously on the chart. He paused and pointed the pen at Mulder. "With all the obvious restrictions. I think a change of scenery will do you good, but your most strenuous activity should be lying on the beach and soaking up some rays. And be careful to only eat or drink food at the resort -- your immune system can't handle a bad tamale at this stage of the game." 

Mulder slid off the gurney and offered up a mock salute.  
Brewer walked them down to the waiting room where Grey was perusing the sports section of a relatively intact newspaper. 

"Did you pass?" he asked Mulder, standing and stretching gingerly with one hand pressed to the small of his back. 

"Beam 'em up, Scotty," Brewer said with a little grin. He turned to shake Mulder's hand. "I want to see you back here in a week. Make sure you don't undo all the progress." 

"I promise to explicitly follow the instructions of my personal physician," Mulder replied, raising his hand. He leaned over to add in Scully's ear, "Or should I say follow the *explicit* instructions of my personal physician?" 

Scully bit the inside of her cheek to hide the smirk. "Be a good boy, Mulder, and maybe I'll let *you* play doctor," she murmured wickedly. 

His smile widened -- became slightly lascivious. "Promises, promises, babe." 

Brewer was already headed back down the hall when Scully dragged her attention from Mulder and called after him. 

"Nick! Do you happen to know if Elena is working today?  
I'd like to say hello." 

He glanced back over his shoulder. "Don't know, but I can find out. Hang on." 

Grey shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'd like to see her myself." He thought for a moment. "Do you know if Walt ever made his move?" 

Scully's smile could have rivaled the Mona Lisa. "I couldn't say. But I think it's a question worth pursuing." 

Mulder's jaw dropped. "What are you talking about? Elena...and *Skinner*?" 

"Oh come on! Are you saying you didn't notice?" Grey asked incredulously. "I thought it was pretty apparent." 

"Mulder can be a bit dense about these things," Scully said dryly. 

"I am not... I was sick!" Mulder whined, folding his arms. "And since when is "Walt's" sex life any of my business?" 

"Gotta hand it to you, little brother," Grey said, slapping him on the back. "You give the term 'oblivious' a whole new meaning." 

Mulder was still groping for a retort for that when Brewer called to them. 

"You're in luck! She's working Cardiology -- three floors up. Ask at the desk if you don't see her." 

As they waited for the elevator, Mulder cleared his throat. "Scully? What Brewer said about my ability to heal so quickly... Do you suppose...? I mean, could that be part of..." As he fumbled for words that wouldn't seem to come, Mulder jabbed viciously at the call button. 

Scully caught his hand in both of her own, her thumbs rubbing over the knuckles. "Are you asking if I think that it could be a product of genetic manipulation?" she asked gently. 

Mulder glanced away, his teeth clenched. "It crossed my mind, yeah." 

Scully considered carefully, mindful of the nearly imperceptible tremor in his hand. "I won't lie to you, love. I had the same thought, and it's certainly possible. On the other hand, we have no basis for proving it. Everybody heals at his or her own rate. Yours just may be exceptionally rapid." 

"And I don't think you should start jumping at shadows,"  
Grey put in quietly. "If you look for this in every slightly extreme possibility you'll only make yourself nuts." 

"Easy to say," Mulder said darkly. "When birth order assignments were handed out you drew the lucky number." 

Grey's face collapsed. "I know that. And I'm sorry, Fox." 

The elevator doors opened but Mulder put a restraining hand on Grey's arm before he could enter. "I'm the one who's sorry. You didn't deserve that." 

One corner of Grey's mouth lifted in an insubstantial smile. "Yeah. And *you* don't deserve any of this. So do me a favor and don't think about it -- at least for the next five days, okay?" 

Mulder stepped into the elevator and draped himself against the back wall. "I'm trying, Grey. I'm trying." 

The fourth floor was oddly silent, lacking the usual bustle of activity typical to a busy hospital. Influenced by the stillness, they followed the signs toward the nurses' station without speaking. Grey let his eyes wander, noting the presence of patients in the passing rooms but the absence of staff. He realized he'd fallen quite a bit behind, and had quickened his steps to catch up, when he saw his brother round a corner -- and jerk to a halt. 

Mulder had just taken Scully's hand, raising his eyes to scan the hallway for Elena, when an angry voice shattered the quiet. The next several seconds slowed to a snail's pace as his senses recorded a deluge of information and instinct kicked into high gear. 

* Sharp odor of alcohol, sparkle of broken glass, and an ever widening slick of clear liquid. * 

*Group of nurses with Elena on the fringe, huddled together and clutching each other for support, soft frightened sobbing not quite muffled by trembling hands.* 

*Middle-aged man, disheveled and wild-eyed, pressing a gun to the head of a white-coated, whiter-faced doctor, muscular arm curled tightly around the pale skin of the physician's throat.* 

*Closed door to the stairwell not ten paces beyond the gunman, blood red EXIT sign above flickering on and off from a light bulb past its prime. * 

*Steady blip of a heart monitor through an open door to the right, hooked to a snoring and blessedly oblivious elderly man.* 

*Sharp intake of Scully's breath. * 

* Pad of Grey's sneakered feet approaching rapidly at his back.* 

Mulder slammed on the brakes, trying frantically to back up before the gunman could spot them. Even as his feet reversed their motion, the crazed eyes locked onto his own and the gun swung outward until he could feel the sights boring into his brain. 

"You two! Hold it right there!" 

Purely on reflex, Mulder extended his left arm, still shielded by the wall, backward with the palm facing out. He heard Grey's footsteps cease, felt him standing just behind his left shoulder where the corner protected him from the gunman's view. A nearly giddy sense of relief washed over him and left his legs rubbery. 

"Put your hands up where I can see them!" the man shrieked, tightening his elbow around the doctor's neck and waving the pistol back and forth. "NOW!" 

Mulder complied, keeping their gazes linked but sensing Scully's capitulation. Grey's voice was little more than a puff of air. 

"What do you want me to do?" 

Mulder swallowed, the dry click of his throat sounding abnormally loud to his hyper-attuned ears. "Skinner," he growled, never moving numb lips. "Hurry." 

"Get over here and join the party. You too, Red. And keep  
those hands up!" 

Making his movements slow and deliberate, Mulder nodded. "Take it easy. You're the boss," he said with as much calm as he could muster. Jumbled images of a bank left him feeling disoriented for a moment, and he gave his head a sharp snap to clear it. 

"Just shut up and MOVE!" 

Clamping his lips together, Mulder moved. The brush of Scully's body against his own was torment rather than comfort. He sensed her fear -- knew it mirrored his own. Fear for her like a bad taste on his tongue, obliterating fear for himself. Only Grey's stealthily receding footfalls gave him a crumb of hope.  
  


Georgetown Memorial  
Tuesday  
11:03 a.m. 

"You armed?" Mulder muttered as they neared the fidgeting gunman. 

Scully snorted, and without looking he could sense her eyes roll. "I thought I was bound for six days of fun and sun in Mexico, Mulder. No, I am *not* armed." 

"I want everyone to sit down against the wall, hands where I can see 'em," the gunman ordered, his gaze jumping nervously from doorway to doorway. "Hurry up!" 

Mulder backed up as directed and studied the man peripherally, carefully masking his interest. Large in both stature and weight, hands rough and callused, clad in faded jeans, a flannel shirt and heavy workboots. Thinning blond hair wreathing his head and skin still bearing the bronze of a summer tan. Facial features amazingly delicate in comparison to the bulky form, and brown eyes... 

Mulder's stomach did a slow roll, plunging to take up residence somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. The eyes, behind the bluster of lowered brows, were wide and terrified. Not the eyes of a career criminal or a fanatic consumed by a cause. The eyes of a man driven by desperation past the point of all rational thought. A very bad sign. 

Mulder's shoulders connected sharply with the wall, jarring him from his reflection. He slid down to a crouch, folded hands braced on bent knees, and let his eyes track down the hallway. Four rooms to his left, split evenly between both sides of the corridor. When he rotated his head to check in the opposite direction, Elena's presence at his side startled him. She sent him a tight-lipped smile, keeping her own alarm in check. "Good to see you, Mulder, but you picked a heck of a time to visit." 

"What's going on?" he hissed, part of his focus still trained on the gunman, who was berating a whimpering nurse for not reacting quickly enough. 

"His name is Daniel Rynne. His wife is dying from advanced heart disease and unfortunately was rejected as a candidate for transplant. I guess he figures this is the way to change Dr. Lawrence's mind," Elena said, sotto voice. 

"Somehow I don't think a Smith and Wesson is going to put  
Dr. Lawrence in the mood to operate," Scully murmured, listening in from Mulder's right shoulder. 

"It's worse than that," Elena replied. "He claims he's got a bomb." 

"Now how 'bout you explain to me one more time why you refuse to save my Theresa's life," Rynne snarled at the doctor, still in a chokehold. "And try it without all the fancy doctor doubletalk." 

Mulder watched Dr. Lawrence vainly try to speak through the constriction of his throat, the words thready and unintelligible amidst his frantic gulps for air. His quivering hands flew up to clutch at Rynne's sleeve but the gunman leaned backward until the physician's feet kicked impotently in midair. Mulder tilted his head sharply forward, losing Elena's hushed description of Rynne's threats as his focus narrowed to a pinpoint. 

Rynne's shirt had worked its way loose from his pants on one side, revealing not just the caramel skin of his belly, but the slate gray of plastic explosives. Then Rynne dropped Dr. Lawrence back onto the tile and the bomb winked neatly out of sight. 

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and tapped his head rhythmically against the wall. "Scully, he's wired," he muttered, cracking open one eye to absorb her reaction. 

"You mean he's *wearing* it?" 

"Two words, Scully. Cradock Marine." 

Her breath caught in her throat, and she laid her small hand over his. "Mulder, I know what you're thinking, but you're not up for this," she hissed. "We need to sit this one out and wait for Skinner." 

Mulder registered her plea with only half his brain. Rynne was screaming again, pummeling Dr. Lawrence with the butt of his weapon until the man lolled limply in his grasp. A flicker of movement caught Mulder's eye and he snapped his head to the right, observing several heads cautiously poking out through open doors. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore Rynne's ranting, Scully's hushed entreaties, and the oppressive smell of panic as he marshaled his thoughts. 

"Where's the most vacant section of this hospital?" he asked Elena roughly. "A wing or floor where there aren't many patients? Are there any sections not currently in use?" 

Elena's eyes slid over to Scully's distraught face before she answered. "The southwest wing on the fourth floor is under construction. There are no patients right now." 

Mulder grimaced, his mind conjuring up the image of three floors beneath them, should the worst come to pass. "What about the first three levels under that wing? Are they heavily populated?" 

Elena, sensing where he was headed, frowned in thought. "The cafeteria. And most of the diagnostic equipment - the labs, X-ray, and so forth. A few rooms with patients but not many." 

Scully's nails pierced the cotton of Mulder's shirt, digging into the soft flesh of his upper arm. "Mulder, what are you thinking?" 

"Scully, we can't just sit around and wait for Skinner! Sooner or later some unsuspecting patient is going to come blundering out of his room and Rynne is going to overreact by blowing us all to bits!" 

"Red! I said hands where I can see 'em, not on loverboy there! And no talking!" 

Two quick strides and Rynne towered over them, the doctor a giant rag doll in his arms. Scully released her death's grip on Mulder's bicep, hastily lifting her hands in a show of submission. Mulder considered her flared nostrils, quickened respiration, and compressed lips, recognizing the anger that Rynne misinterpreted as fright. 

"That's better. Just do as you're told, Red, and you won't get hurt," he snarled, brandishing the weapon and tightening his iron hold on Dr. Lawrence until the man whimpered. 

"What about your wife?" Mulder asked quietly. 

Rynne, who had been about to walk away, spun on his heel to glare down at Mulder. "What did you say?" 

"I said, what about your wife? She's the reason you're doing this, right? The reason we're all here? Are you so sure *she* won't get hurt?" Mulder's voice was low, conversational, and he met Rynne's gaze without flinching. 

"SHUT UP! What the hell would you know about it?" 

"I know that your wife is very sick. And that you're desperate enough to resort to anything, even violence, to help her. But this isn't the way." 

"And I bet you have all the answers, don't you, professor?" Rynne sneered. 

He shoved Lawrence aside, ignoring the fact that the physician collapsed into a white puddle, in order to grab a fistful of Mulder's shirt and haul him to his feet. Jamming the gun snugly under Mulder's chin, he slammed him up against the wall and proceeded to examine first one hand and then the other before his lip curled and he jerked his head dismissively. 

"Just like I thought. You're just like the high and mighty Doc Lawrence over there \-- never done a day of hard labor but you look down on those of us that do. Think you're smarter than we are, just because you can put a few letters after your name." Rynne thrust his face so close to Mulder's he could feel the flecks of spittle that sprayed from the gunman's lips. "Well, I ain't gonna fall for a load of overeducated bullshit! Theresa deserves a chance same as anyone, and by God, she's gonna get it!" 

Rynne emphasized his words by yanking Mulder forward and then ramming him back against the wall. His head connected with an audible crack, and bright sparks of light and pain obliterated his vision. He heard Scully's gasp, sensed her restless movement, and fought to regain his equilibrium. 

"Then you'd better take this party of yours somewhere else," he said quickly, before Rynne could turn his attention on her. "Hasn't it occurred to you that when the police show up your wife could be caught in the crossfire? Or that if you really do have a bomb, as you claim, she'll be blown up with the rest of us?" 

Rynne's mouth hung open for a moment as he considered Mulder's words, then it snapped shut and his eyes narrowed. "Oh, there's a bomb all right, professor. Take a look for yourself." 

He hiked up his shirt to reveal a makeshift vest fashioned of plastic explosives and webbed with wires. Far from an expert in such matters, even Mulder could see that the bomb was large enough to do serious damage to both property and lives. Schooling his expression to hide his panic face, Mulder calmly looked from the bomb to Rynne's overbright eyes. 

"I can see you're serious. But that doesn't change the fact that if you set that thing off she'll be one of the first to go. Is that what you want?" 

"You know it's not! What are you trying to say?" Rynne growled. 

"That no one is going to take your threats seriously when they endanger the very woman you want to save. If you move up a floor your wife will be out of the immediate danger zone. You don't really want her to see you like this, do you?" 

Rynne surprised him, his belligerent demeanor crumbling along with his face. "She's unconscious. She can't hear or see anything." His grief vanished a heartbeat later, replaced by cold determination. "But Dr. Lawrence is going to fix that, aren't you, doctor?" he said, voice rising in volume as he loomed over the physician still cowering on the floor. "He's gonna put my Theresa back on that transplant list and get her a heart! Aren't you, Doctor?" He punctuated each question with a sharp nudge of his foot, pursuing Lawrence as he scrabbled backwards like a crab. 

"*Back*?" Mulder asked, more to distract Rynne from tormenting the doctor than to satisfy curiosity. "You mean her name was on the recipient list and he removed it?" 

"She was first in line!" Rynne screamed, the hand not clutching his weapon repeatedly clenching into a fist and then flexing open. "Number one on the list, the next available heart would have gone to her! And then he tells me she's no longer a good candidate for surgery, that he's taking her name off! And he starts spouting a bunch of big words that no one could understand, as if it'll justify giving my wife a death sentence. Well, I ain't stupid, and I can smell a load of shit when it's shoveled into my lap! I know the real reason he took that heart from Theresa was so he could give it to somebody with the money to pay him for it! Well, he's damn well gonna give it back!" 

Rynne lunged for Dr. Lawrence, catching hold of his white lab coat and shaking him until his teeth clacked together. 

"Wait!" Mulder said, taking several steps forward only to be halted by Rynne's gun in his face. "You don't need to do this, Mr. Rynne. If what you say is true, then all you need is your wife's chart and a second opinion. If another doctor agrees that Theresa should have the operation, she'll regain her spot on the list." 

Scully winced, dropping her head to conceal her expression from Mulder and Rynne. To the best of her knowledge, the decision to add or remove a patient from the organ recipient list was made by committee, not left to the whim of a single physician. Though she recognized Mulder's attempt to pacify Rynne and buy them time, she feared he was backing them all into a very tight corner. 

Rynne hesitated, eyes flitting back and forth between the pale, moaning man in his grasp and Mulder's calm sincerity. Mulder struggled to exude a sense of openness and reassurance, though his heart pounded and he could feel a maddening trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades. 

"It's too late," Rynne said, but the protest was weak and uncertain and he loosened his hold on Lawrence. "Where will I get a second opinion? How would I know who to trust? Any other doctor in this hospital will only back up what he says." 

"I'm a doctor." Scully's quiet declaration sent a chill scampering down Mulder's spine and his shoulders sagged in resignation. "I'll look over her chart and give you my professional opinion. But only if you agree to leave these nurses here and move up to the fourth floor." 

Rynne squinted at her. "You don't look like a doctor." 

Scully pursed her lips. "And I'm sure under normal circumstances you don't look like a man who takes hostages and threatens to blow up a hospital. Appearances can be deceiving." 

Rynne glowered at her acid tone, then the corners of his mouth lifted grudgingly. "You're all right, Red. Somebody get her Theresa's chart," he demanded, waving his hand at the line of cringing nurses. 

Elena quickly rose and walked down the corridor, disappearing into a room four doors to the right. She returned a minute later bearing the clipboard, her face expressionless as she surrendered it to Scully. 

Scully glanced briefly at the top page before tucking it under her arm. "Upstairs," she said firmly. 

Rynne's forehead creased with anger but he assented with a quick dip of his chin. "But the doc and your boyfriend join us," he countered, pulling Lawrence close and gesturing with the gun for Mulder to precede him. "If I even *think* you're lying to me, he gets a bullet and I push the button." 

Mulder raised his hands and started toward the door to the stairwell, casting a fleeting look of regret at Scully. When Rynne's attention was temporarily diverted by the difficulty of maneuvering the nearly catatonic Dr. Lawrence after Mulder, Elena leaned in to whisper in Scully's ear. 

"Look out. Dr. Lawrence may be a bastard with no bedside manner but he's a good surgeon. If he voted Rynne's wife off that list, there must be a valid reason." 

"RED! Get over here!" 

Scully bobbed her head, an acknowledgement of both Elena's warning and Rynne's command. She followed Mulder into the stairwell, observing the heaviness of his steps and the way his hand gripped the railing. He had to be running on his last reserves of energy, close to complete collapse from fatigue. Yet she was grateful for his presence, hopeful that between the two of them they could avert Rynne from his path of self-destruction. If ever they needed Mulder's eerily accurate profiling skills, now was the time. 

She could sense Rynne's presence behind her -- the measured thump of his boots and muttered curses as he dragged the gibbering Dr. Lawrence up each flight of steps. 

*Only Mulder,* she thought in bitter amusement, unconsciously shaking her head. *Who else could go to the hospital for a routine doctor's appointment and wind up hostage to a gun-wielding, bomb-toting lunatic?* 

Mulder had reached the top of the second flight and was holding open the cumbersome fire door. As if sensing her thoughts, he stuck out his lower lip and crinkled his brows. "Scullee! This isn't my fault!" he hissed resentfully. 

Scully released a long breath of air and a tiny smile, pausing to run her index finger across the back of his hand. Mulder rotated his hand so that his palm curved around the finger, squeezing it gently. For a split second the fear receded and they shared the joke, weak and trembling as it might be. 

"Keep movin', Red! Or I might change my mind about the value of your boyfriend!" 

Rynne's snarl snuffed the light from her face, reality reasserting itself with painful intensity. Scully ducked her head, pulling her finger from the warm cocoon of Mulder's hand and continuing through the doorway.  
  


Georgetown Memorial  
Tuesday  
11:10 a.m. 

"This is Skinner." 

Grey coiled the telephone cord around his thumb, the steel band across his chest loosening just a bit. Five minutes of clinging to the shreds of his patience, feeling like a ping pong ball bounced from one extension to another, but at last he had the man himself. Sucking in a calming breath, he gathered his scattered thoughts. 

"Walt, this is Grey. Don't talk, just listen for a minute." A quick glance at the two nurses standing anxiously to his left, and Grey turned slightly, lowering his voice. "I'm at Georgetown Memorial. From what I can gather, there's a hostage situation in progress on the third floor, the northwest wing. A single gunman, undetermined number of hostages. I've already talked to hospital security and they've cordoned off the area -- no one comes or goes. So far the gunman hasn't attempted communication with anyone on the outside, but you'd better get a team down here right away." 

"Hang on." Amusement displaced fear for a moment, Grey's lips twitching at the sound of Fox's hard-nosed boss barking orders to his secretary. A flurry of shuffling papers and slamming drawers, then Walt was back on the line. 

"You're saving the best for last, aren't you?" he asked, but the dry tone thinly masked his concern. 

"Fox and Dana walked right into the middle of it," Grey confirmed grimly. "I barely got out myself, thanks to Fox's quick reflexes. And Walt... I think Elena is up there too." 

A string of creative expletives gave credence to Skinner as an ex-marine and inexplicably cheered Grey. "Has anyone called the police?" 

"Not to my knowledge. So far, not many people know what's going on, and I've been calling the shots." 

"Let's keep it that way, for now. You sit tight and I'll be there ASAP." Skinner paused, and when he continued his voice had abruptly switched from assistant director to friend. "They'll be all right, Grey. Mulder is a profiler, he's got years of training and experience in just this type of situation." 

Grey strove to accept the reassurance, couldn't bring himself to do so. "Seven days ago Fox had one foot in the grave, Walt. He's not up to this, no matter how thorough his training." 

Skinner didn't try to argue. "On my way." 

Grey replaced the receiver, tamping down the overwhelming desire to act, to return to the third floor in a foolhardy attempt to rescue his brother. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, wishing he could block out the image of Fox, pale and gasping for breath, fighting for his life in the ICU. Yes, he'd made amazing strides toward recovery the past week, but he was still a shadow of his normally energetic self. Regardless of the danger in catching a stray bullet, the stress alone couldn't be good for Fox's fragile immune system. 

Grey's morose thoughts were interrupted when the stairwell door swung open and a group of agitated, weeping nurses tumbled through, a security guard on their heels. Grey crossed the hallway in three long strides, his eyes searching hopefully for his brother and Dana but finding Elena's dazed face instead. 

"Elena! Elena!" he called, one arm swinging in a wide arc to catch her attention. 

"Sir, please step back. She can't speak with you now," the guard, an older man with salt and pepper hair and an obvious paunch, looked half-terrified and wholly out of his element. 

Grey impatiently pulled out his badge as Elena freed her hand from the iron grip of a younger nurse and hurried to his side. "Detective McKenzie, Raleigh PD. I know all about what's going on up there -- I'm the one that called security. I suggest you take these ladies to the staff lounge. The FBI is on its way, and they'll want to talk to everyone." 

Looking extremely relieved to have some instruction, the guard ushered the little group down the corridor. Grey turned to speak to Elena, finding himself face to face with Nick Brewer instead. 

"What's going on?" Nick demanded quietly, his eyes darting from the departing guard, to Elena, and then back to Grey. "Where are your brother and Dana, and why do those nurses and YOU (he indicated Elena with a small jerk of his head) look as if you just saw a ghost?" 

"More like a monster," Grey muttered under his breath. 

Elena looked at him, shaking her head. "Not a monster, Grey. Just a desperate man willing to try anything to save someone he loves." 

Grey's eyes hardened. "Yeah. Well, I'm feeling a little desperate myself. I'm assuming he still has Fox and Dana?" 

Elena nodded, her brown eyes warm with empathy. "And Dr. Lawrence." 

"What are you saying? Will one of you please give me the secret decoder ring so I know what the hell you're talking about?" Brewer snapped, exasperation replacing his normally benign calm. 

"There's a gunman on the third floor holding Fox, Dana, and this Dr. Lawrence hostage. A patient's disgruntled family member?" Grey waited for Elena's acknowledgement. 

"Husband. His name is Daniel Rynne. His wife was just removed from the transplant list. That's essentially a death sentence," Elena said, rubbing wearily just above her right temple. 

"So he's got nothing to lose," Grey mused grimly. "Not a promising set of circumstances." 

"It's worse than that. He's wearing a bomb, Grey, strapped to his chest. He says that if Dr. Lawrence doesn't guarantee her a new heart he's going to flip the switch. Dana agreed to look over her medical records - trying to buy time, I guess." 

Her words robbed all the oxygen from Grey's lungs, leaving him lightheaded with dread. He sensed Brewer stiffen, heard him swallow hard before mustering a shaky query. 

"What can I do?" 

When Grey didn't immediately respond, Elena reached out to wrap her fingers around his arm just above the elbow. A gentle squeeze brought him back from the knife's edge of panic, grounding him. He slowly drew in a deep breath and released it, a slight bob of his head to signal he'd regained control. 

"Begin implementing whatever procedures you have for emergency closure of this hospital. See that any incoming patients are rerouted to other hospitals and clear out as many of the ones present but not admitted that you can. And whatever you do, DON'T mention the word bomb unless you want mass hysteria on our hands." 

Brewer offered up a mock salute, but the tremor in his fingers spoiled the effect. Grey watched him trot off in the direction of the main desk, then returned his attention to Elena. 

"Are they still on three?" 

"Mulder talked him into moving up to the fourth floor," she began, breaking off when Grey groaned and slapped one hand to his forehead. 

"He moved *up*? Is he crazy? That's just one more floor to..." 

Elena's brows drew together. "The southwest wing of four is under construction, Grey. NO patients. And the floors beneath consist mainly of diagnostic services and the cafeteria. It wasn't just an impulse --Mulder knew what he was doing." 

One corner of Grey's mouth turned up at the indignation in her tone. "Okay, okay. So there's a method to his madness. Sorry I doubted him." He ducked his head a little to study her face. "Did he seem...all right?" 

She grasped the significance of the question immediately. "I'd say he was handling the situation quite well for someone who was circling the drain ten days ago. Dr. Lawrence, on the other hand looked ready to piss his pants." 

Grey's mouth dropped open in shock before he burst into laughter. "Elena, you've got a hell of a way of whistling in the dark. I needed that." 

She smiled, but her eyes were sad. "I know. I'm going to give Nick a hand with getting the ball rolling. Page me if you need me." 

Grey slumped against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing at the wall clock. Hopefully Walt would be arriving soon -- he was more than willing to relinquish control. His years with homicide in Raleigh left him ill prepared to handle a potential disaster of this magnitude. Bad enough a hostage situation, but now a bomb thrown into the mix. 

"Least things can't get much worse," he mumbled, closing his eyes. 

"For the hundredth time, I'm looking for Dana Scully! She was here with a patient named Fox Mulder. M U L D E R! Now are they still here, or not?" 

Grey's eyes flew open. The voice rose above the buzz of emergency room clamor, loud, angry, and all too familiar. The cap of auburn hair only confirmed his fears. 

Grey buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God. They just did."  
  
  


4th Floor  
Tuesday  
11:30 a.m.  
  


"Been married long, Mr. Rynne?" Mulder asked, one long finger tracing patterns in the construction dust that littered the floor. 

Rynne tore his eyes from where Scully sat methodically reviewing charts and test results to squint suspiciously. Mulder's face was guileless, his body posture a relaxed sprawl against the wall. Rynne's stiff shoulders slackened but the gun remained pointed toward Lawrence's head. The doctor remained rigid with terror, nearly hyperventilating. 

"Twenty-three years. Got married right out of high school." 

Mulder whistled low and shook his head. "Staying together that long is no small feat. You must love her very much." 

"Figured that out all by yourself, did ya, Professor? You really are a genius," Rynne sneered, but his eyes were an open wound. 

"The name is Mulder. Have any kids?" 

Scully glanced sharply at Mulder from behind the curtain of her hair. Their eyes locked, communication flowing without a word uttered. 

*What are you doing, Mulder? Don't mess with this guy!* 

*Trust me.* 

Scully rolled her eyes, a tiny grunt of annoyance her response as she refocused on the chart in her lap. 

"Got two. Girl's a senior in high school. Boy's a freshman at University of Maryland." Rynne's terse reply couldn't disguise his obvious pride. 

"Maryland, huh? That's great, you must be really proud of him." 

"First Rynne ever to go to college. Damn right I'm proud." He backed carefully over to a window with Lawrence pressed to his chest, weapon never wavering. To the left was a circular opening in the wall that led to a chute used for bringing construction materials directly to the fourth floor. Rynne leaned against it, the cool draft of outside air drying the sweat on his brow. "How 'bout you and Red? Got any kids?" 

He should have seen that one coming -- couldn't raise the barriers quickly enough. Mulder's eyes skipped involuntarily to Scully, but she averted her own, ostensibly buried in the data. 

"No. No kids," Mulder said quietly, his voice tight and level. 

Rynne pulled his eyes from the view to peruse Mulder's face. "Can't, huh? That's a bitch. Kids are the only thing that make this damn life worthwhile." 

"Mr. Rynne. Daniel. What are your kids going to think? Have you considered them?" 

Rynne's face darkened and he stalked angrily across to loom over Mulder. "Of course I considered them! You think I'm stupid? Or is it just that you think I'm selfish, that I'm doing all this for me?" The gun dipped to caress Mulder's forehead, right between his eyes. "My kids need their mother, Mr. Mulder. And, by God, they're gonna have her!" 

"They need their father too," Mulder persisted, meeting Rynne's thunderous glare. "You set off that bomb and they'll lose you both. Who's going to help pay your son's tuition if you're blown to bits? Who's going to be there to watch him get his diploma?" 

"Mulder..." Scully's voice was barely audible, yet the alarm was evident. 

"You think I want to be doing this? Think I enjoy turning myself into a bomb? I HAD NO CHOICE! I didn't know what the hell else to do!" Rynne maintained his chokehold on the doctor but the gun dropped to his side. "I don't think you understand, Mr. Mulder. Theresa *is* my life. She's a part of me now, and I couldn't exist without her." 

Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed, feeling the heat of Scully's gaze through his sealed lids. 

*You make me a whole person.* 

"I understand all right, Daniel. I've even been there. But this isn't the answer." Mulder opened his eyes, saw he'd made a small chink in Rynne's armor. "She wouldn't want this, would she?" 

Rynne stared at him blankly, then brought the gun back up to Lawrence's temple and turned toward Scully. 

"I don't want to hurt anyone. I just need Red to look at Theresa's chart, to see that she deserves that operation. Then everything will be okay, you'll see." 

At his desperately hopeful words Scully lifted her eyes from the data and flipped the folder shut. Mulder read her expression, and his heart plummeted. 

"Mr. Rynne." She paused, obviously fumbling for the right words. 

Rynne went still, then snugged the gun tighter under Lawrence's chin. "I may not have a college diploma, but I can read people. I can tell you're not a good liar, Red. Your face is gonna show me if you do. So you'd better level with me and not try any of Lawrence's fancy doctor doublespeak. I'll know if you're just telling me what you think I want to hear, and I won't hesitate to throw the switch." 

Scully nodded, clearing her throat nervously. "Mr. Rynne," she said gently, running her tongue across dry lips, "I've reviewed all the tests and treatments your wife has undergone. I have no affiliation with this hospital, nor am I acquainted with any of Mrs. Rynne's doctors, therefore I've assessed her condition with an impartial and unbiased eye." 

"Go on." Rynne's face was lifeless, as if he sensed the blow about to be dealt. 

Scully licked her lips again, sneaking a quick peek at Mulder, who gave a barely perceptible nod. "There was a time, as recently as a month ago, when a transplant would have benefited your wife. That time has unfortunately passed. The vessels surrounding the heart have further deteriorated to such a degree that attaching the donor organ would be nearly impossible. In addition, her general health and strength have sharply declined, leaving her in a weakened state that makes surgery not only inadvisable, but dangerous." She sucked in a deep breath, then resolutely looked into Rynne's pleading eyes. "Dr. Lawrence was right to remove Theresa from the transplant list, Mr. Rynne. If she were to undergo that operation now, I have little doubt that it would kill her."  
  


Georgetown Memorial  
Tuesday  
11:45 a.m.  
  


"So let me see if I've got this straight. Some crackpot with a dying wife and a homemade bomb waltzed into this hospital and has taken a doctor, Mulder, and my little sister hostage? And he's threatening to set off the bomb if his wife doesn't get an operation?" 

Bill's voice was even, but cold as the blue eyes that bore relentlessly into Grey. He pressed his lips tightly together and nodded, wondering just how Dana's brother managed to make him feel like an accomplice to the "crackpot." 

"That's right." 

Bill tightened his jaw and deflected his gaze to a point just above Grey's left shoulder, absorbing the news. Abruptly, his eyes dropped back to Grey's face and he took a half step forward. 

"Then why in the hell are you here, sitting around on your ass doing nothing? What's being done to get her out of there?" 

Fury, raw and primal in its intensity, surged through Grey's entire body until he was blind, deaf, and dumb with it. Bill's unjust criticism offended him on a number of levels. Anxiety and frustration with being thrust into a position of authority in an emergency far beyond anything he'd ever experienced in fifteen years of law enforcement. Fear for Fox and Dana's lives. And outrage at Bill's reference to saving Dana while pointedly ignoring Fox. 

Grey took his own step forward, unaware that his hands had curled into fists. "I've already contacted their boss at the Bureau - he has a team on the way. They've closed the hospital and are in the process of evacuating the floors most at risk. Everything possible is being done to ensure Dana *and* Fox -- not to mention the hundreds of patients and employees -- come out of this alive." 

At the mention of Mulder's name, Bill's lip curled. "Once again your brother has managed to land Dana in the middle of life-threatening circumstances. Is it any wonder I'm not one of his biggest fans?" 

Grey's jaw dropped, astonishment temporarily outweighing his anger. "You can't honestly blame *Fox* for this? He's as much a victim as Dana --they were both just in the wrong place at the wrong time." 

"Funny how that seems to keep happening. Maybe it's because just being with *him* is the wrong place and time," Bill sneered. 

Grey started counting to ten, got to three, and was in the process of drawing back his fist when he heard someone call his name. 

"Detective McKenzie? There's a call for you -- he says it's urgent." 

*Saved by the bell, you ignorant, pig-headed bastard.* 

"Excuse me," he said with exaggerated courtesy and stalked down the hallway to accept the receiver. 

"Grey? I'm only about two minutes out. What's the status on our gunman?" 

Grey let his eyes slip shut, ignoring Bill hovering at his shoulder. "Our gunman's got a bomb, Walt. He's released everyone but Fox, Dana, and his wife's surgeon. Seems she was eliminated as a candidate for a heart transplant and he wants to change the doc's mind." 

Skinner muttered something that sounded like an obscenity under his breath, then asked tersely. "Elena?" 

"She's safe. She's the one that told me about the bomb." 

"Does she have any idea how big?" 

"Big enough that Fox manipulated the guy into moving to a wing on the fourth floor that's under construction. He did us a real favor, Walt. It's the least populated section of this hospital, and we've already begun evacuating the surrounding floors." Grey heard Bill hiss at his words of praise, fought the desire to turn and flip him the bird. 

"You've got to close the hospital to incoming patients and..." 

"Done. Elena and Dr. Brewer are implementing disaster protocols." 

"Okay, I can see the hospital now. We'll cordon off the area around the southwest wing and... Shit!" Skinner broke off and Grey could hear the faint wail of sirens. 

"Walt? What's wrong?" Grey demanded. 

"Who called the D.C. cops?" Skinner growled impatiently.  
"They're converging on the hospital as we speak, complete with a SWAT team." 

The sirens grew exponentially louder, and Grey realized he was hearing them through the ER doors and not just the phone. "Maybe one of the security guards. Is this a problem?" he asked uneasily. 

Skinner blew out a gust of air. "It muddies the waters a bit," he admitted. "Don't worry, I'll handle things out here. Has this guy..." 

"Rynne," Grey supplied. 

"Has Rynne attempted to contact anyone? Has there been any communication at all since he released the other hostages?" 

"No. Elena said Scully agreed to look over his wife's medical records, hoping to stall for time," Grey explained. 

The thunk of a car door shutting, and then Skinner was speaking authoritatively to someone on the other end of the phone. 

"Assistant Director Skinner from the Bureau. I need to speak to whoever is in charge right now." Then he was back online. "I'm sending two agents inside to oversee the evacuation. They'll also round up any witnesses for questioning." He paused, then said with a trace of wry humor, "I suppose telling you to get out of there now would be a waste of my breath." 

"Save it for the D.C. cops -- you'll need it. I'm going to find Elena and see if she can use an extra pair of hands," Grey replied. Inspiration struck and he continued, "But Dana's brother, Bill, is here. You'll probably want your agents to escort him out along with the nurses." 

He could barely make out Skinner's reply over Bill's belligerent refusal mixed with slurs against his parentage. 

"Be careful. I'm going to see if I can reach Mulder via his cell phone. Do you know if he was carrying it?" 

Grey snorted. "This is my brother you're talking about, Walt. I don't think he goes to the bathroom without his cell phone." 

Skinner laughed quietly. "I see your point. I'm sending a walkie-talkie in with Agent Whiting. You can reach me on channel three. Stay in touch." 

"Will do. Now go make nice with the D.C. boys, Walt." 

Grey hung up, grinning a little, only to be cornered by an extremely bad tempered Bill. 

"Listen, you son of a bitch, I am not leaving this building until I know my sister is safe and sound! Get used to having a second shadow because I'm going to be on your ass until she is!" 

"I'm flattered, Billy," Grey returned, putting on his cheekiest grin. "And to think Fox predicted we wouldn't get along!" 

He headed down the hallway in search of Elena, a smirk on his face and a mass of spluttering, pent-up fury hot on his heels.  
  


Fourth Floor  
Tuesday  
11: 52 a.m.  
  


Mulder winced at Scully's forthright declaration, ready for an eruption of Rynne's barely leashed temper. He ran shaking fingers through sweat dampened hair, fighting to hold it together for Scully's sake. Adrenaline rushes only lasted so long, and he was tired...so tired. 

Rynne gaped open-mouthed at Scully for several seconds before his face literally crumpled, the lines and planes falling into pure misery. "What?" he whispered, his voice no longer strident, but weak and confused as that of a child. He cleared his throat, summoned a scowl. "Are you sure?" 

Scully darted a nervous glance at Mulder, took in his dark eyes and pale, sweaty face, and grit her teeth. "Yes, I'm very sure. Mr. Rynne, if Dr. Lawrence were to attempt the transplant it could mean the death of not only your wife, but the next person on the list who needs that heart. Who could actually benefit from the operation." 

Rynne tore his eyes from Scully to stare at the quivering doctor in his arms, the gun slipping from Lawrence's throat to hang by his side. "I...I thought... I never..." 

"Theresa wouldn't want that, would she, Daniel?" Mulder asked, his own voice thin. 

The soft question ignited Rynne's confusion to rage. In a flurry of motion, he strode to Mulder's side and drew back his foot. "Shut up! Shut up! You don't know her, know anything about us, you..." 

"DON'T!" 

Scully cast the chart aside and placed her body between Rynne and Mulder, her face clouded with anger and fear. 

"Scully, no!" Mulder protested weakly, trying to push her aside, terrified that she would bear the brunt of Rynne's ire. 

Scully refused to give way and he was currently no match for her strength. She spread her arms out in a protective shield and glared up at Rynne, challenging him to defy her. 

"This has gone far enough! How many people are going to suffer while you attempt to assuage your own pain? This won't help her!" 

Sirens, their mournful keening punctuating her question, drifted in along with the cold air from the open chute. Rynne dragged Lawrence over to the wall and peered out the window, his eyes widening. 

"Shit, shit, shit! There's cops all over the place out there!" 

Mulder firmly moved Scully to the side, standing on trembling legs. "You're in control here, Daniel. This doesn't have to end badly. Your son..." he trailed off, questioning Rynne with his eyes. 

"Elliot," Rynne muttered, his eyes never leaving the view but the word choked with emotion. "We named him after my father." 

"Elliot doesn't have to lose his parents today, Daniel. We can all walk out of here right now." 

Rynne ripped his eyes away from the activity outside, a hysterical laugh escaping his lips. "Just walk out? Are you crazy? There must be twenty cops down there! You think they're just going to welcome me, maybe get me a cup of coffee?" 

"They want a resolution to this as much as you do," Mulder persisted, gently shrugging Scully's restraining hand from his arm and taking a tentative step forward. "They won't shoot if you don't give them a reason to." 

Rynne's grip on the doctor tightened almost unconsciously and he waved the gun at Mulder. "Oh really, Professor? And what makes you such an authority on what the cops will and won't do?" 

Scully flinched. 

*NO, Mulder! Nonononono...* 

"I'm FBI," Mulder answered gravely, hearing Scully catch her breath. 

Rynne laughed wildly. "Riiiight! Why didn't you say so sooner, Mr. FBI? Would've been nice to know I had such an important hostage." 

Rynne's snickering faded when Mulder's expression remained sober and he gingerly removed his badge for scrutiny. Paling, he staggered backward several steps and swung the gun up to point at Mulder's head. 

"Stay right there and don't move any closer," he warned. "I'll use this if I have to." 

"You don't have to," Mulder said calmly, voice low and soothing. "Listen to me, Daniel. My boss is probably out there by now and..." 

The piercing trill cut off Mulder's speech, startling all of them. Rynne's finger actually tightened reflexively on the trigger before the source of the sound registered and he relaxed a little. 

"My phone," Mulder said, keeping his gaze locked with Rynne's as he carefully pulled it from his pocket and, when the gunman didn't protest, flipped it open. 

"Mulder." 

"I distinctly remember signing Scully's request for leave, Agent Mulder, so that you two could go to Mexico. What in the hell have you gotten yourself into now?" 

Mulder blinked, and his lips curved. Skinner's exasperated growl was exactly what he needed to hear. A balm to his frayed nerves, it pushed back the weariness and renewed his hope. Just knowing Skinner was out there, taking charge, reassured him. 

"Good afternoon to you too, Sir. I was just talking about you." 

"All compliments, I'm sure," Skinner replied dryly. "Just answer yes or no. This man, Rynne -- he's still holding a gun on you, Scully, and the doctor?" 

"Yes." 

"He's got a bomb?" 

"Yes." 

"Big?" 

"Hard to tell. Enough to take seriously." 

"Just yes or no, Mulder. Let's not spook him," Skinner admonished. "Is he rational? Have you been able to reason with him?" 

"Yes, and I'm giving it my best, sir," Mulder replied grimly. 

"Who is that? I want to know what you're saying and who you're saying it to!" Rynne demanded shrilly. "This isn't a 900 chatline, Mr. FBI!" 

Mulder pulled the phone from his ear, raising his free hand in a pacifying gesture. "It's my boss. As I was trying to tell you, he's going to be the one running the show out there. If I tell him you're coming out to give yourself up, he'll see that you're given safe passage. No one will hurt you, Daniel. I can promise that." 

Rynne studied Mulder's face, then shook his head. "I dunno, FBI. I think you're a straight shooter, and I can see you believe what you say. But how do I know your boss is reliable? I don't know anything about him, and my ass is the one on the line here!" 

"You'll have to take my word for it," Mulder replied evenly. "Accept that I trust him -- with my life if necessary. And I can tell you, trust doesn't come cheaply or easily for me." 

Rynne dropped his eyes to his shuffling feet in an agony of indecision. "I'd like to believe you, FBI. God, how did I get myself into this whole damn mess!" 

"I'll vouch for him too," Scully said suddenly, stepping around Mulder to catch Rynne's attention. "He's my boss too." 

She held out her I.D., disregarding the regret in Mulder's hazel gaze. Rynne let out a hoarse bark of amusement, casting his eyes toward the ceiling. "Only I could manage to take two Fibbies hostage. God, I am such a screw up!" 

Mulder's voice tightened, toughened. "Then make it right, now. End this. For your daughter. For Elliot. For Theresa." 

Charged silence as Rynne stared at Mulder as if hypnotized. Finally, he hung his head in a barely perceptible nod. "Yeah. All right." 

Lightheaded with fatigue and relief, Mulder pulled the phone back to his ear. "Did you hear that, sir?" 

Skinner's voice was colored with emotion. "I heard it. Mulder, you need to get him to come down the stairs and out the door at the extreme southwest end of that wing. Do you know what I mean?" 

Mulder glanced down the hallway, saw the glowing exit sign over the stairwell door. "Yeah. I see it." He lowered his voice. "I can't stress enough the importance of keeping everyone back, sir. We're on the razor's edge." 

"I hear you. Keep this line open and take it slow, Mulder." 

Mulder heard Skinner bellowing orders as he lowered the phone and inclined his head. "It's your move now, Daniel." 

"You two lead the way," Rynne ordered, the words trembling as badly as his hands. "I'll hang back a little. Keep your hands where I can see them and don't make any sudden moves." 

Mulder nodded, trying to moisten parched lips with an equally dry tongue. He steered Scully ahead of him, indicating the stairwell with a jerk of his thumb. His eyes fastened on the red letters above the door, vision tunneling until the rest of his surroundings faded to insignificance. He was over halfway down the corridor before he sensed Rynne begin to follow, the clunk of his boots echoing in the silence. 

Scully was a mere ten paces from the door when the world turned upside down, splintering into chaotic fragments. 

"Police! Freeze!" 

Mulder spun at the command, and time wound down to a snail's pace as his brain processed the overload of sensory data. 

*A man dressed in black and a kevlar vest, bearing a high powered rifle, poking his head through the open chute.* 

*Rynne half-turned with Lawrence as a shield, gun bobbing recklessly and his eyes bulging with fear.* 

*Lawrence, panicked and struggling, one hand clawing at  
Rynne's grip on his throat, the other scrabbling for purchase on Rynne's chest.* 

*The snick of the rifle.* 

*Rynne's desperate grunt as Lawrence's fist found it's mark, pummeling his upper body...* 

"NOOO!" Mulder screamed, vaguely hearing Skinner's tinny shouts from the phone still clutched in his fingers. 

Spinning back around, he dove forward, registering Scully's shocked, horrified face as he covered her body with his own. 

*A flash of brilliant white light.* 

*A deafening thunderclap that vibrated through his entire body.* 

*Darkness.*  
  


Concluded in part 2  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Georgetown Memorial  
Floor 2SW  
12:10 p.m.

 

Grey slowly lifted his head and propped himself up against the   
wall, the muscles of his back screaming in protest and his ears   
filled with an irritating ringing. He shook his head in an effort to   
dispel the fuzziness, his eyes roving to regain his bearings. One   
moment he'd been trotting down the hallway, ducking into rooms   
to confirm they were vacant, and the next he was lying on the floor   
in a tangle of arms and legs. He heard a grunt and turned his head   
to see a dazed Bill picking himself up off the tile and fingering a   
nasty swelling beneath his right eye.

Realization crashed over Grey like a tsunami, stealing the breath   
from his lungs and eclipsing the physical aches and pains.

"Oh my god," he murmured, tremors wracking his body and   
turning his normally mellow baritone to a painful rasp. "The   
bomb..."

Bill froze, his face losing color as well as expression. "Dana."

Grey squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the rush of tears. Rynne   
had detonated the bomb, and Fox and Dana were with Rynne,   
therefore... His mind shied away from the logical conclusion to   
those thoughts, but his body ached in response. A vivid picture of   
the two at breakfast imprinted itself in his brain -- Fox's relaxed,   
easy banter, Dana's constant, loving touches. He felt liquid warmth   
on his palms, realized he'd curled his fingers so tightly into fists the   
nails had sliced his skin.

"They must be dead," Bill intoned, voice as blank as his face. "No   
one could survive that."

He gestured to the jumbled and overturned equipment, the cracked,   
buckled ceiling and drifting clouds of plaster dust. Grey numbly   
fumbled through his pockets until he located the walkie-talkie and   
pressed the button with clumsy fingers.

"Walt? Walt, this is Grey -- can you hear me?" He barely   
recognized his own voice, heavy with grief and tears.

Skinner's response was a collage of rage, horror, sorrow, and guilt.   
"Grey? Grey, where are you? Are you all right? Are you injured?"

Grey struggled to answer, the words catching in his throat. "I'm on   
the second floor. The concussion knocked us down and we're a   
little banged up, but okay. Walt, what happened? Why did he set   
off the bomb?"

Skinner cursed, but Grey heard anguish, not anger in the epithets.   
"They were on their way out, Mulder talked Rynne into giving   
himself up. Some damn eager beaver on the SWAT team thought   
he'd be a hero and took matters into his own hands. He went up the   
chute used to transfer construction materials to the fourth floor and   
tried to apprehend Rynne himself. He must have spooked him into   
setting off the bomb."

Grey turned his back on the mute suffering in Bill's eyes, leaning   
his head against the wall. "How bad is it, Walt?"

Silence -- oppressive and damning. "It looks pretty bad,  
Grey. Rescue crews are assessing the situation now, but the fifth   
floor appears to have collapsed down onto the fourth. Inadequate   
support due to the construction caused it to crumble."

Grey bit his lip hard, shaking his head though he knew Skinner   
couldn't see it. "I won't accept that they're gone until I see the   
bodies," he choked, swiping at renegade tears with the back of his   
hand. "They could still be alive up there, Fox has more lives than a   
cat, you know that, and if he managed to get clear of the immediate   
zone of impact, if he was able to protect them from..."

"Grey." Skinner uttered the name with fierce compassion. "You   
need to get out of there now and let the rescue crews take over.   
They're the professionals; it's their job. That  
whole wing is unstable and you could..."

"NO!"

Skinner bit off his attempt to calm, shocked by the vehemence.

"I will not sit by while Fox and Dana might be trapped, still alive!   
I'm going up there, Walt. I'm going to find them."

"You don't know what the hell you're doing, Grey!" Skinner   
hissed, furious. "You could cause more damage, blundering around   
aimlessly, not to mention get yourself killed. You and I both know   
odds are overwhelming that they didn't survive! You need to clear   
out of there right now. I can make it an order if I need to."

Grey bared his teeth in the semblance of a grin. "You can try.   
Look, no one else is invested in finding them the way I am, Walt.   
They've already written them off -- hell, even you have! They'll   
concentrate on the obvious survivors first. Well, I have my own   
priorities. I'll stay in touch."

"Grey! Grey, don't you sign off on me, damn it..."

Grey thumbed off the receiver and turned to see Bill regarding him   
with a predatory smile. "Wouldn't have thought you had it in you,   
McKenzie, but lead the way."

Grey's mouth worked impotently for a reply so he settled for   
adamantly shaking his head. "Uh uh. No way. I don't want or need   
a partner on this one."

Bill's smile widened. "I told you before, hotshot. Until Dana's safe   
and sound (he faltered, the smile less feral and more brittle) or   
until I find her body, you've got more than just a partner. You've   
got a damn Siamese twin."

Grey moaned, dropping his chin to his chest in defeat. "I can't   
believe this is happening. All right, I give. Let's get started."

 

Georgetown Memorial   
Floor 4SW   
12:30 p.m.

 

Something was wrong. Scully lay very still, grasping for elusive   
thoughts that tried to drift away like dandelion seeds on a breeze.   
She could feel Mulder's warm solidity at her back, the soft puff of   
his breath on her neck. But instead of pliant, warm flannel under   
her cheek she felt cold resistance. Instead of fabric softener and   
Mulder, she smelled dust and ash. And she hurt -- her whole body   
a cacophony of aches and pains, but especially her left arm that   
was somehow twisted beneath her.

Scully slowly opened her eyes, an involuntary whimper escaping   
as the pounding in her head turned from solo to ensemble. She   
battled heavy eyelids to focus in the semi- darkness, at first unable   
to make sense of the confusing jumble of metal beams, broken   
tiles, and chunks of drywall. Something warm and wet trickled into   
her eye and she sluggishly lifted her free hand to swipe at it,   
bringing away crimson stained fingers. And then, like the flip of a   
switch, it all fell into place.

*Rynne.*

*The bomb.*

*MULDER!*

Panicked, she desperately tried to wriggle out from under Mulder's   
oppressive weight, at first succeeding only in dislodging a few   
loose ceiling tiles and irritating her already excruciating arm.   
Forcing herself to relax, she lay motionless until the shifting debris   
settled, then gingerly wormed her way free and sat up.

Spots flashed, obscuring her vision, and the banging in her head   
switched to a high-pitched whine for several minutes. When her   
sight cleared and her stomach ceased doing somersaults, she was   
able to reach out and touch Mulder, for the moment just   
confirming that he still drew breath, that his heart still beat.

Cradling her injured arm against her chest, she ran her eyes over   
his body, only making it as far as his torso before recoiling in   
dismay.

"Oh, Mulder," she whispered, tears spilling to mix with the blood   
on her cheeks.

By sheltering her with his body, Mulder had borne the brunt of the   
fallout. Blood matted his silky brown hair and dripped down his   
pale cheek, his right arm appeared to be pinned beneath a large,   
wooden beam, and his left side...

Scully closed her eyes and swallowed thickly, taking deep slow   
breaths until the resurgence of panic receded to a more manageable   
level. A half-inch metal pipe, probably part of the sprinkler system,   
had pierced his left side and embedded itself in the tile, pinning   
him to the floor like a bizarre specimen in an insect collection.   
Blood steadily oozed from the wound and pooled on the floor in a   
sticky crescent.

Mesmerized by the steady trickle, Scully stared for several minutes   
until her paralysis wore off and the need for action became   
imperative. She turned her head, her eyes panning a full 360   
degrees and even above them, her drive to find help shattered by   
reality. The fallen beams, sections of wall and ceiling, and other   
rubble contained them in a precarious pocket of safety so small she   
could not even rise to her feet without hitting her head.   
Occasionally she could hear a creaking groan followed by a crash   
as somewhere a damaged support gave way.

She bit her lip hard, forcing down the overwhelming urge to   
dissolve into tears, and cautiously slipped out of her jacket and   
flannel shirt, grunting in pain as she worked the material over her   
damaged arm. Clad only in a white tee shirt, the swollen, already   
bruising flesh from elbow to wrist confirmed at least one broken   
bone. She loosened her leather belt and slipped it from her jeans,   
refastening it to bind the limb to her body with her hand elevated   
as much as possible. The discomfort flared into white-hot agony,   
and she had to pause twice, panting and willing herself not to pass   
out.

Impatiently brushing sweat and blood from her eyes, Scully used   
teeth and her functioning hand to tear two strips from the flannel   
shirt. The first she converted into a makeshift bandage for the gash   
above her left temple, tying the material in a manner similar to the   
headbands she and Charlie used to create when stuck playing   
Indians to Bill and Missy's cowboys. Taking the second strip in   
trembling fingers, she tenderly cleaned the worst of the blood from   
Mulder's face and then the cut on the back of his skull, which had   
already begun to clot. Mulder didn't even twitch, and she couldn't   
help pressing two fingers to his throat. Weak, but steady -- small   
comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

Steeling herself, Scully folded the already hiked-up leather jacket   
to expose the wound in Mulder's side. The sharp steel had sliced   
cleanly through the skin above Mulder's left hip but below the   
diaphragm. The positioning looked to be dangerously close to the   
area of the spleen, or possibly the kidney. She longed to wrap her   
hands around the invader violating her partner's body and remove   
it, but the doctor in her realized that to do so would likely initiate   
severe hemorrhaging. Though every fiber of her being screamed   
against it, she left the pipe in place, laying the remainder of her   
shirt over the open area of the wound and pressing firmly.

Mulder moaned, a bottomless, fundamental cry of torment. His   
eyelids fluttered and his unfettered arm and legs jerked   
spasmodically as the fresh infliction of pain dragged him to   
consciousness. Terrified that he would aggravate the already grave   
injury, Scully restrained his arm by looping her leg over it and   
leaned close.

"Shhh. Mulder, be still. I know you're in pain, but if you keep   
moving you'll make it worse," she murmured, her words both   
commanding and calming. Ignoring the nauseating throb in her   
arm and head, she skimmed her fingertips across his cheek and   
kept up a continuous patter of reassurances until his body stilled   
and his eyes finally remained open, though clouded with pain and   
confusion.

"Scully? Where..."

"Shhh. Don't try to speak, love, just listen. We're at Georgetown   
Memorial, remember?"

She could see the bewilderment vanish, sorrow and regret   
replacing it. "Rynne," he said softly. "The bomb."

He tried to shift then, to twist his body so that he could better see   
her face. Scully's hand shot out to arrest the motion but her own   
reflexes were sluggish. Mulder screamed, his eyes flying open is if   
they would pop, then slamming shut as his face contorted in agony.   
His fingers clenched into an impossibly tight fist and he pressed   
his ashen face into the floor while tears leaked from beneath his   
lids and mingled with the dust, grime, and dried blood.

"Slow it down, Mulder. Concentrate on my voice and slow it   
down," Scully said over his frantic pants for air. "Breathe in,   
breathe out. In. Out. That's it, love. In. Out."

She could sense him lock onto her words, see his respiration drop   
accordingly, but the aftermath left him shivering helplessly, his   
skin cool and clammy to the touch.

*Shocky* she thought absently, disregarding the little voice in her   
head that warned her own condition was marginally better. She   
tucked her discarded jacket around him as best she could and   
threaded her fingers through his hair. The odors of acrid sweat and   
coppery blood mingled and filled her nostrils, forcing her to   
breathe open-mouthed to assuage the queasiness roiling in her gut.

"Gonna be sick," Mulder gasped, mirroring her thoughts.

"It'll pass," she told him with more conviction than she felt. "Just   
keep breathing, love."

Time lost any meaning, so Scully was uncertain how long it took   
for his respiration to even and her stomach to settle. She felt   
disconnected, drifting, her only anchor the feel of Mulder's hair   
sifting through her fingers.

"What's wrong with me?"

So wispy and colorless, but the question tugged her back to reality   
with a jolt.

"There's a piece of metal pipe embedded through the flesh  
just above your left hip," she replied through numb lips.

"Hurts," he groaned. His hand flailed, then clamped around her   
wrist in a crushing grip. "Pull it out, Scully. Please, pull it out."

The thin cry for help coupled with eyes glassy with agony left   
Scully feeling as if her insides had been filled with broken glass.   
She took a gulp of air that hiccuped into a whimper, blinking   
furiously.

"I can't, Mulder." What was intended to sound both strong and   
compassionate fizzled to a beseeching moan. "Right now the pipe   
is acting as a cork, preventing hemorrhaging. If I remove it you   
could bleed out before anyone finds us."

Mulder didn't speak, but his vise-like hold loosened and his thumb   
moved back and forth in a gentle caress. "'S okay, babe. I   
understand."

Scully saw him try to meet her eyes by twisting his head without   
moving his body, and gingerly stretched out beside him with her   
good side pressed to the frigid floor. His gaze sharpened, losing its   
vagueness, and he slid his hand across until the index finger traced   
the edge of the cut peeking from her homemade bandage.

"You all right, kemosabe?" he murmured.

As always, his sense of humor even in the midst of a nightmare,   
seeped through the cracks in her defenses, liberating her tears.

"I'm fine," she choked, then made a face at his look of disbelief.   
"My arm is broken," she amended. "And I think we both have   
concussions."

He showed his teeth in a sort of grin. "Scully, this is the first time   
we've had matching head injuries! Cements the bond, dontcha   
think?"

Playing her part, she rolled her eyes. "Most couples just exchange   
rings, Mulder."

He chuffed a little, but stiffened, biting down hard on his lip.   
"Can't laugh, babe," he said tersely. "Better start talking about Bill.   
That'll do the trick."

"Shhh," she replied, automatically shifting into her method for   
soothing him, rubbing lightly up and down his arm.

Like a Pavlovian response, his eyes lost focus and the lids began   
drooping. The doctor in her knew that in his shocky condition   
falling asleep could be dangerous, but denying him the respite   
from pain was too cruel to contemplate.

"Just rest, love," she crooned, her throat tight with a fresh surge of   
weeping. "I'll listen for the rescue crew."

He didn't argue, didn't acknowledge, just slipped away from her.   
Scully studied his beloved face -- the sweep of dark lashes against   
a milky cheek, the lines of pain around his generous mouth that   
remained even in slumber.

She told herself that she wasn't letting him down. That she   
fervently believed they would be found in time. That allowing him   
to sleep against her better judgement wasn't giving up.

It felt like a lie.

 

Outside Georgetown Memorial  
Tuesday  
1:28 p.m.

 

Skinner was not having a good day.

The chaos surrounding the hospital, reaching epic proportions   
during the immediate aftermath of the explosion, showed no sign   
of ebbing. Sirens blared as a steady stream of ambulances   
evacuated Georgetown's current patients, as well as those injured   
by the blast, to other facilities in the area. Machinery roared as   
rescue workers struggled to gain access to the most severely   
affected floors, still cut off from help. Reporters and television   
news crews threatened to overflow the barriers as they shouted   
questions, thrust microphones, and flashed cameras.

Skinner hated the press.

And through it all, through the noise and confusion, barking orders   
and making decisions to achieve some damage control, Skinner   
grieved. For a small, fiery-haired woman whose grit and   
determination were only exceeded by her loyalty and integrity. For   
a man, hounded by loss and tragedy but possessing a brilliant mind   
and an ability to think outside the box that made him one of the   
best agents  
Skinner had ever had the privilege of working with.

A senseless loss, and completely avoidable.

And that's where Skinner's grief blended seamlessly into fury. The   
entire incident had been a hair's breadth from peaceful resolution,   
no doubt due to Mulder's uncanny ability to profile his adversary.   
No casualties needed to occur -- especially not the two he'd   
privately come to regard as friends and not just colleagues. Until   
the action  
of one overzealous cop blew it all to hell. Literally.

A tragedy, said Chuck Draper, captain and officer in charge of the   
D.C. cops whose arrival had coincided with Skinner and his   
agents'. A well-meaning but inexperienced officer makes a poor   
judgement call that costs not only his own life, but others as well.   
A deadly object lesson in the necessity of following the chain of   
command.

Draper was a good man, and Skinner publicly accepted his   
assessment and his condolences. Privately, however, he nursed   
more than his share of doubt and resentment. He'd had dealings   
with Mike Fenton, the SWAT team leader, before. Skinner closed   
his eyes, lifting his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. And   
remembering...

**Thirty-two and SAC of his first big case, a bank robbery gone   
bad. Ten hostages -- one critically injured. Two gunmen packing   
assault rifles with mile-long records of breaking and entering and   
armed robbery.

His negotiator establishes a dialogue with the gunmen, feels   
confident he can talk them into surrendering peacefully.

Fenton, all bluster and bravado, has a different opinion. The   
criminals will never willingly give up, he argues. The only way to   
save lives is to go in, and to go in full throttle. He's territorial --   
resenting Skinner's involvement from the beginning. He flaunts his   
additional eight years on the force, eight years in the trenches to   
Skinner's comparative inexperience.

They argue bitterly until Fenton undermines his confidence to the   
point where he acquiesces. Fenton's commandos go in with teargas   
and blazing guns.

Both gunmen die, but not before killing three hostages. Fenton is   
coolly ambivalent. He points out the seven lives saved and uses   
terms like "acceptable losses."

Skinner can't forgive himself -- even sixteen years later.**

Skinner sighed and opened his eyes, staring across the sea of   
activity at the empty SWAT van, its inhabitants now assisting with   
crowd control. Fenton had the good grace to give him a wide berth   
and he was wise enough not to seek a confrontation -- at least not   
here and now.

He'd once told Grey that there were times he was certain that life   
was just a single series of events endlessly repeated. Well, this   
time through he was not an inexperienced rookie, lacking   
confidence. This time, by God, he'd see that Fenton accepted   
responsibility for his actions.

"Assistant Director Skinner? Sir?"

The light, feminine voice, overlaid with anxiety, pulled him from   
his dark rumination. He swiveled his head toward the sound and   
was confronted by an attractive young woman with honey blonde   
hair and wide blue eyes. Not just a woman, but an agent with   
which he was all too familiar.

*Damn.*

"Agent Harding," he said gruffly. "I seem to recall assigning you   
the Winkler file. Is it finished already?"

Normally a stickler for protocol, she ignored him -- a fact that   
clearly attested to her state of mind. "I heard about the explosion,   
rumor has spread all through the Bureau. They're saying Agent   
Mulder and Agent Scully are dead. Is it true?"

The fresh stab of pain at her words surprised him. "It looks that   
way," he confirmed through tightly clenched teeth.

Kristen dropped her eyes and nodded, projecting composure, but   
he could see her hands tremble before she slipped them into the   
pockets of her navy pantsuit.

"Was he with them?"

He had to admire her strength -- the question was uttered with a   
level tone, only a slight break at the end betraying emotion.

"No. But," he lifted a hand to quell her sigh of relief, "he was   
inside the building when the bomb went off. And he disobeyed my   
directive to come out and let the rescue teams conduct the search.   
He's convinced they may still be alive, and he's taken it upon   
himself to look for them."

Kristen pursed her lips, a mixture of worry and affectionate   
exasperation on her face. "He's incredibly hard-headed   
sometimes."

Skinner's eyebrow lifted. "I have to admit, I thought you'd be more   
upset. That building is completely unstable, and sections are going   
to continue to collapse. He's placed himself in serious danger."

Kristen's eyes slid away from his, and he realized that the fear was   
present, just carefully masked. "Of course I wish he were here, sir,   
out of harm's way. But I love him. And that means I have to accept   
that he'd walk through fire -- or in this case a collapsing building --   
to save his brother."

"And what if there's no one left to save?" Skinner muttered.

She lifted her head, straightened her slumped posture. "Then I'll be   
here to help pick up the pieces."

 

Stairwell   
Tuesday   
2:30 p.m.

 

"This isn't working."

Grey used his arm to brush sweat and damp, curly tendrils of hair   
from his brow. He glared over his shoulder at the man sprawled on   
the landing, sipping from a bottle of water.

"And it never will if you just sit on your butt and leave me to do all   
the work!" he retorted. "Your sister is up there somewhere -- or   
have you forgotten?"

Bill slammed the plastic bottle to the floor, leaning forward. "Of   
course I haven't! But I'm smart enough to recognize a useless   
expenditure of energy when I see it. We've been trying to clear a   
path through that rubble for over an hour and you'd never know it.   
Face the facts, McKenzie. We aren't going to get through that   
way."

Grey set aside another chunk of drywall, watched his hands jitter   
with fatigue. He stomped down the four steps to the landing and   
threw himself to the ground beside Bill, curling his arms around   
his folded legs and resting his head on his knees.

He was furious. Furious that a glory-seeking kid had snatched   
defeat from the jaws of victory. Furious that Bill was right, that   
their hour of hard labor had succeeded only in sapping their   
strength. Furious at the traitorous tears that clogged his throat and   
hovered constantly behind his eyelids in spite of his determination   
not to break down in front of this man.

"I haven't heard any brilliant ideas from you," he growled, fueling   
the anger to sublimate the grief.

Surprisingly, Bill didn't allow himself to be baited. "I never   
claimed I had any."

Silence filled the space between them. Grey tried to quiet the   
Pandemonium in his spirit, but images of Fox kept interfering.

"He nearly died a week ago. He's still so weak." Grey bit off the   
words, horrified that he'd spoken them aloud.

An elbow nudged his arm and a bottle of water was thrust into his   
hand. Still embarrassed by his admission and confused by Bill's   
small gesture of kindness, Grey turned his head and took a long   
pull from the container. The water was lukewarm but delicious.

After another brief silence, Bill spoke. "If anyone could pull him   
through something like this, Dana can. God knows, she refuses to   
let go of him no matter what happens."

It was a grudging, left-handed offer of comfort but Grey accepted   
it with grace. Another few minutes of stillness before he broke it.

"He would, too, you know. Don't forget that he went all the way to   
Antarctica to bring Dana back safely."

"Course, she wouldn't have wound up in Antarctica if not for his   
damn quest," Bill pointed out, an edge to his voice.

It added tinder to the dying spark of Grey's anger. "How can you   
continue to hold Fox responsible for every bad thing that happens   
to your sister?"

"Because he is! Dana had a good life before she became mixed up   
with the X-Files and your brother! She was close to her family and   
she knew where her responsibilities lay. She was content!"

"They do an important job, Bill, a job that makes an impact against   
the evil in this world. I've seen it!"

"But at what cost? She's nearly paid with her life more times than I   
can count!"

"You have such tunnel vision, Bill!" Grey exploded. "You think   
that it's been a picnic for Fox? Every time I see him he's added a   
new scar to his collection! It's what they *choose* to do. The least   
we can do is respect that choice."

"Why should I respect a choice that has brought so much grief to   
Dana and to our family?" Bill snarled.

Grey leaned his head against the wall, staring into space. "Martin   
Luther King, Jr. said that unless you've found something worth   
dying for, your life isn't worth living," he mused quietly.

Bill snorted. "You think little green men are worth dying for?"

Grey cast him a sidelong glance, lips twisted in a rueful smirk. "Do   
you honestly think it's the *quest* she's willing to die for? You're   
even denser than I thought, Billy boy."

Billy gaped, open mouthed, until Grey's meaning sank in. Flushing   
a dark red and jerking to his feet, he yanked the stairwell door open   
and paused on the threshold.

"I'm going to see if I can find another way up," he snapped, the   
words clipped and delivered without expectation of a response.   
"You can sit on your ass or come along -- I really don't care   
which."

He stalked out the door, leaving Grey to replace the water bottles   
in his makeshift backpack and heft it onto his shoulder. The   
overtaxed muscles of his arms protested loudly, sending little jolts   
of pain as an expression of their discontent.

"With a gracious invitation like that, how could I possibly refuse?"   
he replied, resisting the latent, school boy portion of his psyche   
that wanted to make faces at Bill's back.

Instead he swiped the sweat from his face and counted to ten, this   
time making it all the way. "Brace yourself, Grey," he muttered. "If   
all goes well that idiot could be your brother-in-law someday." He   
affected a mock shudder, pulling open the door. "Now *that's* an   
X-file."

 

Floor 4SW  
Tuesday  
4:17 p.m.

 

"Thirsty."

Startled, Scully carefully shifted to face him. She'd been lying on   
her back, staring at the deepening shadows as day waned and the   
light faded. Mulder's eyes gleamed from beneath heavy lids and his   
tongue slipped out in a vain effort to moisten parched flesh.

"Me too," she admitted, reaching out to brush the pad of her thumb   
across the swell of his lower lip. "Welcome back."

Mulder gingerly tried to shift his upper body, grimacing. "Never   
thought I'd say this, babe. But I was hoping to wake up in a   
hospital. A different one, of course."

Scully's thumb moved up to caress the arch of his cheek before her   
fingers trailed down the length of arm and entwined with his.   
"They'll be coming soon," she said quietly. "Grey and Skinner will   
move heaven and earth to find us."

Mulder's gaze skittered away. "Unless Grey was caught in the   
explosion too."

"There's no reason to assume the worst, Mulder," she chided.   
"Skinner is out there, right? And we know Grey was responsible   
for calling Skinner. I think it's reasonable to assume that he was   
with him -- or at the very least, a safe distance from the blast."

Mulder accepted her reassurance with a perfunctory nod, but his   
teeth worried the inside of his cheek and his expression remained   
troubled. Scully watched him brood for several minutes, longing to   
ask a question that had been troubling her, but loathe to upset him   
further.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"What happened? Why did Rynne set off the bomb?"

Mulder's mouth tightened into a thin line and his eyes narrowed.   
"Daniel didn't do it. Lawrence did."

Scully blinked, his answer knocking her completely off balance.   
"*Dr. Lawrence*? I don't understand. How...why would Dr.   
Lawrence set off the bomb?"

"Somehow a cop came up that materials chute by the windows.   
Looked like SWAT or some other Special Forces unit. Daniel got   
scared and turned back so Lawrence started struggling, hitting him.   
He must have tripped the switch."  
The lengthy speech overtaxed Mulder. He broke off, panting for air   
and shivering.

Scully fumbled for the bloody strip of flannel and tenderly blotted   
the beads of perspiration from his brow. "Easy. You keep   
forgetting to breathe, love," she murmured.

"Daniel was going to give himself up, Scully," Mulder puffed,   
ignoring her admonition. "Skinner guaranteed his safety. *I*   
promised him. Why would they renege and send someone in like   
that?"

Scully shook her head, searching for the words to comfort but   
coming up empty. Mulder's use of Rynne's first name was not lost   
on her. He'd done it again, his unique gifts of profiling and   
empathy forming a connection with a criminal until the lines   
between guilt and innocence, blame and absolution blurred beyond   
recognition.

"Skinner wouldn't have authorized it, Mulder," she said, capturing   
his fingers once more. "There must have been a misunderstanding,   
miscommunication between him and the police. But regardless of   
that, Rynne strapped on that bomb and he is still the responsible   
party. Not the police, not  
Doctor Lawrence, and certainly not you."

Mulder's eyes played keep away again, dropping to their joined   
hands. "That may be true, Scully. But two kids just lost their   
father, and maybe their mother. And it didn't need to happen."

She had no reply for that, and knew he wasn't really expecting one.   
Scully pushed herself upright, wanting to check the wound in his   
side before darkness made it impossible. She shivered as a draft of   
cold air teased her bare arms to gooseflesh.

"Put your coat back on, Scully."

Irritated that he'd glimpsed the evidence of her discomfort, Scully   
chose to ignore the weak command and concentrated on carefully   
removing her improvised pressure bandage. Despite her soft touch,   
Mulder sucked in a sharp breath of air and shuddered helplessly.   
She stared unhappily at the wound; the edges inflamed an angry   
red and still steadily oozing fresh blood. She refolded the shirt in a   
useless attempt to press a clean side to the injury, biting her lip   
hard when Mulder whimpered.

"Sorry," she whispered, scooting around to lie down beside him   
once more. She cautiously snuggled into his side, both to give and   
receive additional warmth.

Mulder gradually regained control of his breathing and opened   
eyes that had clamped shut. Scully saw him scrutinize her thin   
cotton tee shirt and the frown on his face deepened.

"Take back your jacket, Scully," he repeated, pushing the words   
past his lips with as much force as he could muster. "I mean it."

"I'm fine, Mulder..." she began, only to gape when Mulder used a   
word she'd never heard him utter in her presence, let alone direct   
toward her.

"You are *not* fine! You're injured, you're only wearing a tee   
shirt, and it's getting cold in here! Now take the damn jacket or   
I'll..."

Mulder reached awkwardly over his shoulder, groping for the coat,   
but inadvertently twisted too far. This time he didn't even scream.   
The small amount of color remaining in his cheeks evaporated and   
his eyes rolled back in his head, the lids fluttering shut.

"Mulder? Mulder, don't zone out on me!"

Scully ran her knuckles briskly across his cheek and was rewarded   
by a small moan and a glassy stare. He blinked languidly twice,   
finally focusing on her frightened face.

"Smooth move, Mulder," she scolded, giddy with relief. "Now lie   
still and stop causing trouble."

Amazingly, though he could barely lift his head, Mulder picked up   
where he'd left off. "Take coat...please."

Tears stung the back of her throat, but she tenaciously held on to   
rationality. "Mulder, your condition is much worse than mine.   
You're still losing blood, and you're in shock. You need that coat   
more than I do."

In the end, as always, it was his eyes that undid her. She could   
have her mind made up, her responses set in stone, and yet one   
moment of immersion in the intensity of his gaze left her   
defenseless.

"For me," he croaked, and Scully was dismayed to see he also was   
close to tears.

She silently lifted the coat from his back and slipped her uninjured   
arm into the sleeve before draping it around her. Relief and   
gratitude smoothed the creases from his forehead and he seemed to   
slump further down onto the tile.

"Thank you."

"Why?" Scully asked, hating how wonderful it felt to have the soft   
material enveloping her again. "Why couldn't you let me do this   
one little thing for you?"

"Don't want you to make another sacrifice for me, Scully," he   
answered. "God knows, you've paid enough."

She frowned, bewildered by his words and the strength of the   
emotion underlying them. Then, abruptly, she recalled their   
conversation after Mulder's failed basketball outing and it all began   
to make sense.

"The deal I made with Spender for the serum," she said, searching   
his face. "That's what's really bothering you, isn't it? You can't get   
past the fact that I willingly placed myself in his hands in order to   
save your life."

Mulder squirmed a little but immobilized as he was, he could do   
little to avoid her. Settling for closing his eyes against her knowing   
gaze, he curled his fingers as if trying to dig them into the floor   
beneath his cheek.

"You shouldn't have done it, Scully."

Tired, thirsty, and hurting, his perpetual self-deprecation drove her   
to anger. "Why, Mulder? Why the double standard? You've   
repeatedly put your life on the line for me without giving the   
matter a second thought. You broke into that research facility and   
the DOD looking for a cure for my cancer. Despite a gunshot to   
that hard head, you dragged yourself halfway 'round the world to   
find me and bring me home safely. And I happen to know that the   
only thing that stopped you from making your own bargain with   
Cancerman was Skinner. Why is it so hard to accept that I'd do the   
same for you?"

"Because it scares the hell out of me."

The fragile, hushed reply annulled her anger and laid bare her   
heart. Scully traced one finger over the delicate skin of his closed   
lids with a gossamer touch until he hesitantly opened them.

"Why, love?"

Slipping into a conditioned response, Mulder tried to deflect with   
humor. "You mean other than the fact that I'm a wuss?"

Scully's steady, unrelenting stare was his only answer. His heart,   
already fluttering at an abnormal rate, lurched and the twisting   
sensation in his gut temporarily eclipsed the fire in his side. Then   
her soft palm cupped his face, her thumb exploring the boundary   
between the stubble of his jaw and the smoothness of his cheek,   
and even his stubborn, screwed up, overcautious brain could read   
the elemental love in her eyes.

For a split second Mulder's mind turned inward, to a place he   
sometimes visited when the demands of day to day existence left   
him feeling confused and adrift...

**Brilliant golden sun, warm brown sand, cool azure water. He sits   
on a large, flat rock, the crash of the waves filling his ears and the   
breeze kissing his sun-flushed cheeks. A small, dark haired boy   
stands on a pier, his red swim trunks a bright splash of color   
against the weathered boards. Mother and father, already in the   
water, are calling encouragement. Even from a distance, he can see   
indecision warring within the child as he remains poised above the   
surf. It's written in the hunch of small shoulders, in toes curled   
tightly over the edge of the planks.

To jump, or not to jump?

Love and trust pull him forward. Fear holds him back.

And then mother swims closer, planting her feet against the tug of   
the waves and raising outstretched arms. "You can do it," the   
gesture says clearly. "I'll catch you."

And immediately, without hesitation, the boy jumps.**

"Mulder?" Scully's hushed utterance of his name was questioning,   
uncertain.

Mulder blinked, coming back to the stench of plaster dust, the   
gloom of approaching darkness, and the bite of the metal in his   
side. Yet he could still feel the lingering warmth of sunshine on his   
cheeks. He looked into Scully's eyes, recognizing love, recognizing   
safety, but immobilized by fear.

And decided it was time to jump.

"I'll tell you why, Scully." He reached up, wriggling his fingers   
until they'd slipped neatly between her own. "It terrifies me   
because it means that you really could love me as much as I love   
you. And I don't think...I *know* I can't live up to that. Eventually,   
I'll wind up disappointing you, babe. I always have. And I always   
will."

Scully's fingers clamped down convulsively on his and a tear   
trickled down her cheek, but her words were tinged with humor.   
"Mulder, you are such an idiot. In fact, I sincerely doubt that a   
bigger idiot exists. Even on Reticula."

Mulder's lips curved in spite of his morose mood. "Don't pull any   
punches, Scully. Give it to me straight."

"Just exactly what kind of ideal do you think you need to live up   
to? I believe I have a right to know, since it would seem only fair   
that I achieve the same level of perfection -- don't you agree?"

Rather than irritate, her exaggerated sarcasm acted as a salve to his   
raw emotions. "I don't think you have anything to worry about,   
babe."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh really? So you don't mind when I nag you   
about leaving the toilet seat up and getting shells all over my   
coffee table? Or what about when I'm grouchy because I haven't   
had enough sleep and I argue with practically every word out of   
your mouth? Are you telling me that none of that bothers you,   
makes you want to grab hold and give me a good shake?"

Mulder's mouth twitched. "Well, sure. I suppose there are times   
that you get on my nerves, but I'd hardly consider them important   
in the greater scheme of things! I mean, I love you, and nothing   
else really..."

He broke off, confounded by Scully's smug expression, both   
copper eyebrows arched.

"You were saying, love?" she prodded sweetly.

"I...It's not the same, I..."

"Got you, Mulder. Big time. Now I suggest you come to terms   
with the fact that this is an equal partnership -- even in love -- and   
get over yourself."

Mulder appeared struck speechless, a rare occurrence indeed. He   
tugged their joined hands to his lips, pressing kisses to her   
knuckles. After several minutes of silence, he cleared his throat.

"Scully, this is the last time I'm going to ask about this. I promise   
to accept whatever answer you choose to give me, and I won't   
bring up the subject again."

Scully frowned at the reticence in his face. "What is it, love?"

"What happened to you while you were with Cancerman?" When   
her face darkened with impatience and...something else, Mulder   
rushed onward. "I'm not trying to beat myself up about this, Scully,   
I swear I'm not! I just... Scully, nothing could be worse than the   
images I've come up with in my own mind. I would really like to   
know the truth."

She sighed, anger draining out of her expression to leave a tension   
around her mouth that spoke of weariness and memories best left   
buried.

"What do you want me to say, Mulder? That it was horrible? It   
was. That they drugged me just enough so I knew what they were   
doing to me but couldn't stop them? They did. Poking and   
prodding and strange machines and needles until I didn't think I   
could stand anymore."

Scully stopped herself, trembling. Mulder's face was granite,   
impassive, but his eyes bled. He nodded, then tried to speak, but at   
first his voice failed him. Scully braced herself for guilt, for self-  
recrimination.

"Thank you."

Not just an expression of gratitude for her honesty, but an   
acknowledgement of her gift to him. His simple reply astonished   
her. Healed a wound she hadn't realized she bore.

"You want to know the worst part of my time with Spender,   
Mulder?" she asked softly, leaning more strongly into the comfort   
of his body until her face rested only inches from his own.

A tiny jerk of his head, teeth tormenting his lower lip.

"Not being able to see you, to touch you. Wondering if I'd be too   
late, and terrified that you could slip away without allowing me the   
chance to say goodbye. To be sure you knew that in spite of the   
bumps in the road, I've never regretted this journey."

Mulder's eyes shone but he pursed his lips. "Bumps in the road,   
Scully? There've been a hell of a lot of potholes, I'd say."

Scully grinned and brushed her mouth across his in a feathery kiss.   
"Especially the flukeman thing."

He bit back a chuckle. "Sculleee! Don't make me laugh." Carefully   
burrowing his face into the crook of her neck, he drew in a deep   
breath, then slowly released it. "There's no one else I'd rather make   
the journey with, babe," he mused drowsily. "'M sorry you got   
stuck in this particular hole, though."

She pressed another kiss to the crown of his head, wishing for two   
good arms to hold him tight. And watched as the last pale threads   
of light gave way to darkness.

 

Floor 2SW  
Tuesday  
5:00 p.m.

 

"I'm not sure this is a good idea."

Grey rolled his eyes and bit back ten different wise retorts. He was   
tired, he smelled, and he was damn sick of  
William Scully, Jr. Blowing out a long breath of air, he lifted his   
hands, palm up, in a gesture of frustration.

"Then what? We've been over this floor at least five times. Both   
stairwells are impassable -- as you so eloquently pointed out. We're   
losing the light, and these pissant little penlights aren't going to be   
real helpful. We need to do this, or just pack it in and give up."

Bill's brows drew down until it seemed they'd brush his nose and   
his lips thinned. "I am NOT giving up on my sister, hotshot."

"Then get over here, put your hands together, and stop   
bellyaching," Grey snapped.

Looking as if he were sucking on a cactus, Bill stomped into the   
elevator, his footfalls echoing down the shaft. Grey ignored his   
muttering and stepped into the proffered hand, shoving aside the   
access panel in the ceiling and hooking his arms over the edge.

"Boost," he grunted, and nearly flew through the air when Bill   
heaved upward with more force than necessary.

He wriggled over the lip and rolled onto his back, gazing upward.   
Amazingly, the shaft remained intact for as far as he could see in   
the dim light. Flipping back onto his stomach he peered through   
the opening to regard Bill's upturned face.

"Looks good." Scooting farther over the opening he extended his   
right arm. "Take my hand, I'll pull you up."

Bill snorted, his lip curling in disdain. "Just step back. I'll get there   
on my own power."

Grey shrugged and did as he was told, reflecting on the sheer   
mystery that Dana shared genes with this man. He heard Bill's   
guttural explosion of breath as he launched himself upward,   
followed by the sight of fingers curled over the sides of the open   
hatch. Red-faced and dripping sweat, Bill hauled himself up, first   
securing his elbows and then worming forward.

"Piece of cake," he said, puffing heavily.

Grey lifted an eyebrow. "Right. Well then why don't you head right   
up that cable, Billy boy? Wouldn't want to waste all that energy."

He didn't wait for Bill's inevitable sour response, just settled the   
backpack more firmly on his shoulders, swiped his sweaty palms   
over his denim-clad legs, and wrapped his fingers around the steel.   
Feeling the weight of Bill's less than supportive stare, he took a   
deep breath and began shimmying upward, hand over hand.

It was harder than he expected. The cable was slick under his   
hands and didn't give the way a rope would. He paused once he   
reached the doors to the third floor, panting and blinking against   
the perspiration trickling down his forehead to sting his eyes.   
Carefully tilting his head, he squinted upward.

"Gonna go all the way," he huffed, licking his lips and tasting salt.

"Are you crazy?" Bill's question held incredulity, not anger. "If   
you fall from that height I'll be scraping you off this thing!"

"Aww! Knew you cared," he called, forcing his tired arms to start   
pulling again.

Bill uttered a string of curses worthy of a sailor, which he   
steadfastly ignored. At last double doors bearing the number 4 slid   
into view. He hung there for a moment, muscles quivering with   
exhaustion, while he gathered courage to take the next step.

Gripping more tightly with both hands, Grey kicked out, swinging   
his legs with all his strength. When his toes cleared the lip of the   
doorway he pushed off with both arms. Both feet connected with   
solid ground but his weight remained distributed toward the cable   
and he sensed himself begin to careen backward toward the shaft.   
Flinging both arms wide he scrabbled frantically for a hold while   
trying to compensate by lunging forward.

Just when he thought all was lost, his right hand found purchase   
and he righted himself, blood pounding in his ears and breath   
hitching in his lungs. He let his head drop down to rest against the   
closed doors and concentrated on the solidity.

"What's going on? Can we get through?"

"Just extracting my heart from my mouth," he replied sarcastically,   
the words bouncing and wavering until they reached their   
destination. "Give me a minute."

When his heartrate approached normal and his legs ceased   
trembling, he pushed his fingers into the crack between the doors   
and pulled hard. They resisted at first, then slid slowly open with a   
creak of protest.

Something large whizzed past his left cheek, and he reflexively   
jerked backward, nearly losing his balance and tumbling down the   
passageway. A second later he heard a bang and Bill's shout of   
alarm.

"What the hell was that?"

Grey stared glumly at the jumble of boards, insulation, and other   
debris that completely blocked entrance to the fourth floor.

"That was me getting ready to come back down. Fourth floor is   
completely obstructed."

He eyed the chasm with distaste, aware for the first time that in   
order to retrace his path to the third floor he would have to jump   
and catch onto the cable.

"Just how are you planning on getting back down, Einstein?" Bill   
called. "Did you stop to think about that?"

"No, this was a one-way idiotic plan," Grey muttered under his   
breath. Aloud he called, "Ready or not, here I come."

The jump was perfect -- not too far so that he overshot his goal but   
far enough for his hands to connect easily with the cable. Grey had   
a spit second of exultation before his hands lost traction and he   
plunged downward, leaving his stomach behind.

Reflex saved him again, prompting his legs and feet to wrap   
frantically around the metal and his fingers to tighten convulsively.   
His hurtling decent slowed, then stopped just a few feet below the   
third floor doors. Squeezing his eyes shut against tears of pain,   
Grey tried to disregard the streaks of fire licking across his palms,   
exacerbated by his death-hold on the cable.

"McKenzie? You all right?"

Bill's voice was soft, tentative. Grey zeroed in on it like a lifeline, a   
reminder of why he was in the present predicament.

"Yeah. Yeah. Just..." He broke of, unable to bite back a small   
groan of pain.

"I'm coming up."

"NO!"

Grey could hear Bill literally screech to a halt at the panic in his   
voice, evoking a cartoonish image in his warped brain that caused   
him to nearly erupt in hysterical laughter. He pictured little puffs of   
smoke rising from under Bill's heels.

"You'll shake the cable," he said, shoving the thought away and   
regaining some composure. "I can't... I won't be able to hold on.   
Wait."

"Fine, fine. I'm waiting. Just don't fall on top of me," Bill growled.

Grey longed to make use of his middle finger, settled for inching   
deliberately upward.

"You are one crazy son of a bitch, McKenzie," Bill's harsh words   
concealed a grudging admiration.

This time when he swung his legs across the gap one hand slipped   
free and he slammed to his knees, pinwheeling his arms furiously.   
Then, whether from depleted strength or simply because they'd   
jammed, the doors stubbornly refused to open until he'd peeled   
back a nail and further injured the screaming flesh of his palms.   
Yet when he tumbled through the opening onto the chaotic   
wreckage of the third floor he could have danced for joy.

"Hello! Mind giving the rest of us an update?"

Until Bill's acerbic voice burst the bubble.

Grey cast one hurried glance down the murky, rubble-filled   
corridor before leaning through the doors and swinging his arm in   
a welcoming arc.

"C'mon in, the water's fine."

Bill's puckered expression of scorn further lifted his flagging   
spirits and compensated for the fire in his hands. He'd begun to   
enjoy this sport of brother-baiting and couldn't seem to scrape up   
an ounce of remorse for his behavior. Well, maybe an ounce...

"Careful," he warned as Bill curled his fingers around the cable.   
"It's a lot smoother than a rope, and easier to slip."

"Thanks for the advice," Bill growled, in a voice that meant   
anything but. "I don't need a backseat climber."

"Whatever," Grey sighed, leaving Bill to his acrobatics and   
switching attention to his lacerated hands.

A narrow, angry red line of inflammation bisected the tender skin   
of each palm, oozing small droplets of blood in some places. Grey   
hooked one finger into the pocket of his jeans to fish out a   
handkerchief and gingerly wound it around his right hand, the   
more severely damaged of the two.

After securing it in place, he lifted his eyes to find Bill clinging to   
the cable directly opposite him.

"Move it or lose it, hotshot, I'm coming through," he cautioned,   
looking as if he hadn't broken a sweat.

Grey stepped aside with an exaggerated bow and a smirk. "Oh   
*do* join me, Billy, I thought you'd never get here."

It was destined to become fodder for his occasional bouts of   
insomnia --wondering whether the needling might have thrown off   
Bill's timing. Whatever the cause, instead of landing squarely at   
the mouth of the doorway the way Grey had, Bill released his hold   
too late and fell short. Grey watched in horrified slow motion as   
the tips of Bill's sneakers brushed past firm ground and he dropped   
like a stone toward the elevator car beneath.

"NO!" he screamed, lunging forward to clutch at something,   
anything. A limb. A swatch of clothing. Even the flimsy excuse for   
a backpack if it halted the man's plunge. The tips of his fingers   
skated across a cotton pullover, snagging for a split second before   
it tugged loose. Bill's momentum slowed a fraction, but he   
continued to freefall, eyes wide with terror. His hands shot   
forward, groping for the ledge as he sank past it, and,   
miraculously, they locked on. With an abrupt and muscle-  
wrenching jolt he aborted the fall, legs swinging wildly over thin   
air.

"Hang on!" Grey dropped to his belly, reaching over to clamp his   
hands around Bill's arms just beneath the elbow. He could only see   
the carrot top of his head, Bill's gaze trained on the shadowy mass   
of the elevator car beneath.

"Bill, look at me!" Grey ordered sharply.

Sluggishly, reluctantly, Bill complied, his face pale and sweaty.

"You have to let go of the edge and grab onto my arms," Grey said   
slowly, recognizing that the man was on the verge of panic.

Bill shook his head wildly, an action that caused his body to sway   
back and forth until Grey nearly lost his grip. "NO! I can't let go,   
I'll fall!"

"You'll fall if you don't! You can't hang there indefinitely, you're   
tiring already," Grey argued, his own arms now singing as loudly   
as his hands. "BILL. Trust me. I *won't* let you fall."

Bill scrutinized him for a very long moment before ducking his   
head in a small nod.

"All right. On three," Grey huffed, sending up a silent prayer.   
"One. Two. THREE!"

Without hesitation, Bill released his grasp on the edge and clutched   
at Grey's forearms, transferring his entire weight. For an instant   
Grey felt himself slide forward, toward the drop-off, and he   
scrambled desperately to plant his feet against the tile. The rubber   
of his Nikes finally caught and he gradually, slowly squirmed   
backwards.

Once Bill snagged an elbow over the edge, he ceased being a dead   
weight and through kicking, dragging, and slithering, managed to   
work his way completely to safety.

For a very long time both lay pressed to the beautiful solidity of   
the floor, Bill on his back and Grey his stomach, gasping like fish.   
Eventually Grey hauled himself to his knees and pawed through   
his backpack until he'd extracted a bottle of water. After taking a   
long, satisfying draught he offered it to Bill, bemused by the way   
the fluid sloshed wildly in his jittering hand. Obviously in no better   
shape, Bill succeeded in spilling a good portion of the liquid down   
his chin as he attempted his own drink. Scowling at his ineptness,   
he glared at Grey's grin, which rapidly transformed to a snicker.

"You think that was funny?" he blustered, though it came out   
thready and insincere.

"I think we both almost pissed our pants," Grey answered, little   
riffs of laughter still escaping. "And I'm glad you're still alive,   
Billy boy. Who'd a thought?"

Bill stared at him, then smiled. Which became a grin. A chuckle.   
And then they were both rolling on the ground, roaring like idiots.

Finally Bill sat up and dry washed his face, smearing the sweat and   
grime. He looked over at Grey, still flat on his back and   
intermittently snickering, and sobered.

"Thanks, McKenzie. I owe you."

Stunned into his own sobriety, Grey extended a hand and let Bill   
tug him upright. "You're welcome, Bill. As for owing me... You   
may want to reconsider. I don't think you'll like how I choose to   
collect."

Bill's baffled expression melted to understanding and mild   
annoyance. "Huh. Well if what I just saw in that elevator shaft is   
any indication, we'll be even before I have to worry about it. You   
always take risks like that?"

Grey's smile faded. "Only in times of extreme circumstances," he   
answered grimly. "I think this qualifies."

Bill stood, offering his hand. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm with you   
on that."

 

Outside Georgetown Memorial  
Tuesday  
8:33 p.m.

 

"Don't give up yet. Please."

Skinner thrust his jaw forward and averted his eyes, staring at the   
damaged building rather than the frustrated countenance of Joe   
Adamson, leader of the rescue operation.

"Look, Assistant Director Skinner, it isn't that I don't sympathize,"   
Adamson said wearily, scrubbing his sleeve across the sweat and   
grit layering his face. "But we've had no success gaining access to   
the fourth floor, and our attempts to do so haven't uncovered any   
signs of life. From what we've been able to determine so far, there   
*isn't* a fourth floor anymore. It's almost as if the fifth floor   
dropped down to take its place."

"But you haven't been able to explore the entire fifth floor, have   
you?" Skinner persisted. "You said you'd only managed to break   
through to a small stretch of it."

Adamson wrinkled his nose and massaged the back of his neck.   
"That's true. To be honest, our first priority was evacuating the   
injured on the floors we could reach. Amazingly, there have been   
relatively few casualties thanks to the early warning and the   
efficiency of hospital staff.

"Then you have to admit..."

Adamson shook his head, holding up one hand to forestall   
Skinner's protest. "Just because I've seen only a portion of that area   
doesn't mean I can't make some pretty educated assumptions   
regarding the chances of those closest to the blast. Frankly,   
surviving that kind of a concussion would be a miracle. I   
understand they're your agents, sir, and I wish I had better news.   
But I have my own men and women to think of, and proceeding in   
the darkness, despite the floodlights, significantly increases their   
danger. Considering the odds against finding anyone still alive,  
I'm loath to take the risk."

Skinner trained the full intensity of his gaze on Adamson. "I   
understand what you're telling me, and I've no doubt it's based on   
hard-earned experience. But you've got to trust my judgment on   
this. I'll admit I've got my doubts about Mulder and Scully living   
through that explosion." Skinner's grim features softened and one   
corner of his mouth lifted. "But if anyone on this planet could, it   
would be those two. More than once I've written them off only to   
have them prove me wrong. I won't make that mistake again."

He sighed heavily. "And as we stand here and debate whether to   
call a halt to the search for the night, there are two untrained, but   
extremely stubborn, men in there somewhere, conducting their   
own little rescue mission. God only knows what kind of a jam   
they've gotten themselves into by now."

Adamson squinted at him doubtfully. "You're certain about that? I   
know you said they were already inside, but nobody has seen hide   
nor hair of them."

Skinner's hand tightened reflexively on the walkie-talkie in his   
pocket, reproachfully silent despite repeated attempts to contact   
Grey. "They're in there, all right," he growled. "I can't vouch for   
Bill, but I know Grey won't give up until he discovers exactly what   
happened to them. I can't do any less."

Adamson pondered his declaration, then shrugged. "All right. Have   
it your way -- for now. We'll take another crack at the fifth floor.   
But until I find some hint of life, I'm playing it conservative,   
Skinner."

"Of course. I understand."

Skinner worked to contain the influx of relief that left him weak-  
kneed.

*In the greater scheme of things, this means nothing. The cold hard   
fact is that Adamson is probably right. How could they have   
survived?*

"Mr. Skinner?"

He turned to see Maggie Scully, a steaming cup of coffee extended   
and a questioning expression on her careworn face. Kristen   
hovered at her elbow.

"Any word?"

Skinner accepted the cup, taking a gulp of liquid warmth, which   
spread throughout his chilled body while he chose his reply   
carefully. Calling Maggie Scully with bad news was becoming a   
familiar, though unwelcome, occurrence. Each time his admiration   
for the woman rose another notch --her grace and fortitude under   
fire reminiscent of a certain redheaded agent.

"No sign of Dana or Mulder -- or our recalcitrant pair of rescuers,   
for that matter. But he's agreed to continue the search, at least for   
now."

Maggie let her eyes slip shut and exhaled. "Thank God for that."   
She fixed Skinner in the warmth of her gaze. "And thank you, Mr.   
Skinner. Don't think I don't appreciate your role in that decision."

When he attempted to voice an embarrassed denial, Maggie held   
up a quelling hand. "We've been through this a few times, you and   
I. Certainly enough for me to have seen the subtle ways you've   
supported Dana and Fox." She shook her head ruefully. "I frankly   
don't know who to be more concerned about. My daughter-in-law   
tells me there was no love lost between Grey and my son."

Skinner's mouth twitched. "I wouldn't worry," he said, looking at   
Kristen from the corner of his eye. "I'm sure Grey can take care of   
himself."

Maggie reached over to give Kristen's arm a gentle pat. "Oh, I'm   
certain of it. It's Bill I'm worried about. I love my son dearly, Mr.   
Skinner, but there's times he'd try the patience of a saint."

The startled guffaw burst from Skinner before he could rein it in.   
Initially horrified by the inappropriateness of his laughter, the   
twinkle in Maggie's eye told him she hadn't taken offense -- had, in   
fact, purposely provoked the release of tension.

Allowing an open smile of admiration, Skinner raised an eyebrow.   
"Please call me Walt, Mrs. Scully. I think we've been here enough   
times to dispense with the formalities."

"You're right about that. And it's Maggie, Walt." She turned to the   
shivering Kristen with a critical eye. "We're going to go   
somewhere warm and get a quick bite to eat. Can we bring you   
something?"

Skinner could feel his stomach applaud at the mention of a meal.   
"Please. Anything warm will do."

Maggie nodded, but Kristen was shaking her head vehemently. "I'd   
rather not leave, what if they find them, what if..."

Maggie linked her arm with Kristen's. "I was a Navy wife for over   
thirty years, Kristen. I had to sit by while Bill ventured into some   
dangerous situations, and I learned an important lesson. The next   
best thing to being with him was to make sure I was prepared to   
welcome him home. You'll be of no use to Grey if you're half-  
starved and frozen."

Kristen frowned and opened her mouth to protest, but the steel in   
Maggie's brown eyes changed her mind. "Well, maybe just a quick   
meal," she said grudgingly.

Skinner watched Maggie steer her away before turning back to   
stare at the crumbling building. Kristen was in good hands. He   
could only hope Mulder and Scully would fare as well.

 

Floor 4SW   
Tuesday   
9:22 p.m.

 

"So... Tell me again why you think the Knicks are going to do so   
well this year?"

Scully endeavored to keep her voice light, conversational. She   
didn't want Mulder to sense how troubled she was.

"Scullee! Already 'splained to you. 'S because..."

Mulder's slurred reply trailed off and she knew he wasn't even   
aware that he'd stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence. His   
cognizance and coherency had declined sharply over the past hour,   
causing fear to bubble up inside of her like a pot left unattended   
over a flame.

"Mulder?"

"Mulder!"

Her only reply was an incoherent mumble. Scully desperately   
wished she could see him, could look into his eyes to assess just   
how frightened she should be. A barely perceptible trickle of light   
filtered into their prison, illuminating a vague outline of Mulder's   
body, but no more. Contenting herself with touch, she ran her   
fingers over the too warm skin of his brow, down his cheek, and   
across to his ear.

"Sorry, love," she muttered.

Taking his earlobe between thumb and index finger, she gave the   
soft flesh a vicious pinch, wincing as if she'd inflicted the   
discomfort on herself.

"OW!"

Too late, Scully realized that the simple trick for restoring   
consciousness would also cause Mulder to reflexively jerk away   
from her hand. His cry of pain modulated into a wail, bringing   
tears to her eyes and a frantic litany of apology from her lips.   
Reduced to soft whimpers of pain and gasps for air, Mulder still   
managed to seize her hand and press it tightly to his cheek, silently   
communicating forgiveness.

They lay mutely in the darkness for an undetermined time, long   
enough that Scully began to fear he'd slipped under despite her   
unwitting torture. Then Mulder spoke, his words a bit garbled but   
lucid.

"Think Sam's alive?"

Like coming into a play during the second act, Scully scrambled to   
figure out what just happened and what lay ahead. Mulder's   
silhouette, dark and indistinct, revealed nothing, but the voice was   
laced with weariness and resignation.

"Why are you asking me that question now, Mulder?" she asked,   
hoping to define the terrain of this unfamiliar landscape. "You've   
always been certain she was out there, somewhere, and that one   
day you'd find her. Does it really matter what I -- what anyone else   
\-- thinks?"

He was so still, his ragged, uneven breathing her only indication   
that the shadow beside her didn't belong to a statue carved from   
stone.

"Useta be sure of a lotta things, Scully. Not anymore."

Ahh. Scully was both relieved and disconcerted to be back on the   
topic of Bill Mulder's betrayal. Leave it to Mulder to be half out of   
his head with pain and shock one moment and probing for the   
answers to life's greatest mysteries the next.

"Mulder. I know that learning of your father's duplicity has shaken   
you. But it doesn't have to change your beliefs, your convictions."

Mulder's grasp on her fingers tightened. "It does. Changes   
everything, Scully. 'S like dominoes. Nothin's left standin'."

Scully shook her head, realized he couldn't see the gesture, and   
pulled their joined hands to her lips instead. "Even dominoes need   
a solid surface beneath them, love. There are fundamentals that   
your father's deeds, however treacherous, can't touch."

"Such as?"

Scully sucked in a deep breath. "Such as the man you are. You're a   
good person, Mulder. A little flawed, yes, but no more so than any   
of the rest of us. And your relationship with Samantha -- love can't   
be engineered, can't be genetically programmed. What you meant   
to each other hasn't changed just because your father dealt with the   
devil. You've dedicated your life to finding her and bringing her   
home. Has anything you've learned really changed that?"

Silence, and she could practically feel him thinking. The fingers   
woven between her own trembled and his breathing hitched, first   
speeding up and then slowing down as he fought for restraint.

"Used to waver b'tween wanting his attention 'n dreading it," he   
said softly. "Only emotion he showed me was anger,   
disappointment. Thought it was 'cause of Sam. Thought he blamed   
me." A pause and more rapid pants for air. "He *knew*, Scully. He   
*knew* why they took her but he left me to bleed. How could he   
live with himself?"

Scully walked the tightrope, each footstep tentative and   
meticulously placed. "From what you've told me, love, he didn't --   
at least, not very well. He became an alcoholic, his marriage broke   
apart, and he alienated his son. I don't think you were the only   
recipient of his guilt."

A tissue paper thin sigh. "Mulders're quite the all- American   
family, huh, babe?"

Scully bit her lip. "I'll admit your family life was pretty   
dysfunctional, Mulder. But nobody's is perfect."

"Yours was pretty close."

Inside, she flinched at his wistfullness. She knew she'd allowed   
Mulder to bare his soul concerning his family without ever really   
sharing much about her own. Yes, on the surface, and in   
comparison to Mulder's, her formative years appeared smooth   
sailing. But Mulder considered her family life a small step away   
from "Father Knows Best," and she was guilty of perpetuating that   
myth.

"Mulder." It was hard to say the words, her lips and tongue felt   
heavy and uncooperative. "My family was not... We had our own   
problems. My father was away at sea for long periods of time, and   
every time he came home we had to adjust to having him around   
again. He was much stricter than Mom, so it felt like the rules   
changed in the middle of the game. He'd try so hard to "whip us   
into shape" that he wound up overreacting. Melissa, in particular,   
found his restrictions stifling and she'd rebel just for the sake of   
defying him. She dyed her hair green, dabbled in drugs, ran away   
from home... And as if that weren't enough, Bill started trying to   
fill Dad's shoes when he was gone, lording it over the rest of us   
and insisting he was the man of the house. He and Charlie barely   
even speak to each other now, which is part of the reason you've   
never met Charlie. And me..."

"The good girl," Mulder whispered.

Scully's lips turned up in the suggestion of a smile.  
"Yeah. That was me. Daddy's girl, the one always trying her   
hardest to please, to live up to his standards, his expectations. I   
loved and admired him so much, I was willing to do whatever was   
necessary to make him proud."

"But you went into pathology. The FBI..." Mulder's voice fell off   
but she clearly heard what remained unspoken.

*The X-Files.*

She explored the memory of her father's disappointment the way a   
child's tongue probes the hole from a missing tooth, cautiously   
testing for pain. To her intense relief, she found only a dull ache.

"That's the danger of raising your child to be her own person,"   
Scully mused. "Eventually she is."

Mulder's thumb traced the lines on her palm. "He'd be proud,   
babe."

"I hope so. But what's more important, is that *I'm* proud. You've   
given me that gift, Mulder. Together we do good work, important   
work." She squeezed his hand. "Another fundamental. Don't ever   
doubt it."

Mulder released a puff of breath that might have been laughter,   
then sighed. "Thanks, babe. 'M glad you're your own person."

Scully grinned. "I'm going to hold you to that, love. Count on it."

 

Floor 3SW  
Tuesday  
9:17 p.m.

 

"I don't get it. Mom told me that Mulder didn't know about you   
until recently. Why not?"

Grey didn't actually turn his head, just allowed it to loll to the right   
so that Bill came into view. "His...our parents gave me up for   
adoption. They never told Fox and Samantha I existed -- or anyone   
else for that matter."

Bill's forehead creased. "I repeat -- why?"

Grey pressed his shoulders more firmly against the wall and grit   
his teeth. Finding Fox had helped him come to terms with his   
parents' actions, but they still stung. "That is a very long, very   
complex, and extremely unbelievable story. Suffice it to say that   
they felt they were protecting me."

Bill silently absorbed this while Grey took another swig of his   
water and gazed at the pile of rubble bisecting the hallway. A pile   
he and Bill had systematically reduced over the last several hours,   
finally breaking through just a few minutes earlier. Eyes bloodshot   
with fatigue and muscles quivering from exertion, both had sunk to   
the ground in unspoken agreement to rest.

"Why just you?"

Sliding down the silence into a slight stupor, Bill's question jerked   
Grey back like a dog on a leash. How to answer that one? Bill   
lived a black and white, two-dimensional existence not so different   
from the one he himself had inhabited up until about six months   
ago. Shattering that worldview was not a responsibility Grey cared   
to shoulder -- not that Bill would be receptive if he tried.

"By the time Fox was born, I don't think my parents' lives were   
their own," he said carefully. "Deception was no longer an option."   
After a pause, he added, "You feel contempt for my brother's   
quest, for the choices he's made. But the simple truth is that Fox   
never really had a choice.  
There were those who manipulated his future even before his birth.   
Yet somehow he's managed to retain his integrity, the purity of his   
purpose."

"You sound as if you *admire* him," Bill muttered, incredulity   
dripping from his words and twisting his features.

"Damn right," Grey retorted softly, vehemently.

Bill snorted and shook his head. "Look, McKenzie. You seem to   
be a decent guy, though occasionally a pain in the ass. But your   
brother..." His lip curled. "You think I didn't check up on him   
when I found out Dana was assigned a partner? I've got friends   
with connections; I put my ear to the ground! Spooky, they call   
him. Had an amazing capacity for catching serial killers -- most   
likely because he shares many of their personality traits. Cracked   
up after mind-melding with one too many psychos and wound up   
in the basement, investigating aliens, ghosts, and things that go   
bump in the night. Couldn't hold onto a partner, a lone wolf with   
complete disregard for rules or procedures. That's what they told   
me my little sister was paired with. And you know what? I've seen   
nothing to dispute that assessment!"

The inability to summon anger defined Grey's exhaustion more   
clearly than his burning muscles. He released a long puff of breath   
and pursed his lips.

"I've got news for you, Bill. I've asked a few discreet questions of   
my own, and I've little doubt that my source is a bit more reliable   
than yours."

"Yeah, they call him Spooky. The name originated right about the   
time his solve rate exceeded that of any profiler in the Bureau's   
history, coined by those jealous of his talent. And yes, his   
acquisition of the X-Files occurred after a breakdown caused by an   
outrageously heavy caseload and too much empathy for victims.   
And as far as not keeping a partner, well, he and Dana have been   
together six years. A lot of marriages don't last that long!"

"You think you dislike my brother, Bill, but the truth is that you   
don't even know him. You let rumor and innuendo taint your   
perception of him before you ever saw his face, and now nothing   
can sway you from that preconceived opinion. And I guess the   
saddest thing of all is that you trust the judgement of a few   
acquaintances above that of your own sister."

Grey expected a smart retort or come back of some kind, so Bill's   
expressionless mask and stony silence unnerved him. Heaving a   
sigh, he hauled his throbbing body upright and resumed clearing   
away pieces of rubble to widen the passageway.

"Don't know why I wasted my breath," he grumbled to himself.

Grey tugged at a particularly heavy board that abruptly came free   
and sent him staggering backward. Cursing softly under his breath,   
he let it drop to the floor and inspected the now shredded skin   
around a large blister in the center of his palm.

"Here."

The gruffly spoken word was followed by a white handkerchief   
thrust into his view. Grey's gaze trailed from the hand, up the arm,   
until it met Bill's scowling face.

"Better wrap that."

Grey accepted the square of cloth, fumbling awkwardly as he   
attempted to wind it around the injured area with only one hand.   
After watching impatiently for several moments,  
Bill uttered a grunt of annoyance and snatched the handkerchief,   
though he accomplished the bandaging with a surprisingly gentle   
touch.

Grey flexed his fingers, then stooped to pick up a slab of drywall.   
"Thanks. That really helps."

"Just didn't want you so incapacitated that I'd have to do the rest   
myself," Bill replied stiffly, avoiding Grey's eyes by reaching for a   
section of pipe.

Grey suppressed a sharp rejoinder and merely shrugged, throwing   
himself back into the task at hand. After less than ten minutes   
they'd created an opening large enough to wriggle through on   
hands and knees.

The corridor before them looked like a nightmarish obstacle   
course. Mounds of beams, girders and piping were interspersed   
with overturned carts and smashed equipment.  
In some areas the ceiling had cracked and sagged downward, in   
others the linoleum buckled and surged upward -- a surreal parody   
of stalactites and stalacmites. Grey added the weak beam from his   
flashlight to the faint glow from what he could only assume were   
external floodlights. What he saw made his heart sink like a stone   
in deep water.

The hallway was passable for perhaps thirty feet before the ceiling   
caved in completely, sealing off the remainder in an impenetrable   
wall. He felt Bill move up behind him, heard the sharp catch of   
breath as he took in the destruction.

"That's it, then," Bill said, his voice not soft enough to hide the   
despair. "End of the line."

Grey's temper ignited, the culmination of too much worry,   
overwhelming physical exhaustion, and the forced companionship   
of a man he strongly disliked. "It is *not* the end! I haven't sweat   
blood over the last nine hours just to give up now! There's got to   
be another way!"

Bill planted himself in front of Grey, deliberately invading his   
space. "Where? Have you been paying attention? We only made it   
this far by nearly killing ourselves in that elevator shaft! This was   
the only direction we could pass down the corridor, and that's a   
hell of a dead end! I want to find them as much as you do, but   
we've just run out of options!" Bill's explosive tirade cut off   
abruptly, and he dropped his head, massaging his temples with   
shaking fingers. "Look at this place, McKenzie. This is only the   
third floor. If it's this bad down here..."

"NO! I refuse to accept that until I see it with my own eyes! I   
*won't* give up on them, so either start looking for an alternative   
or stay the hell out of my way!"

Bill simply folded his arms in unspoken challenge, refusing to step   
aside.

Something deep inside Grey snapped. He connected with  
Bill's jaw before he could consciously register that his fingers had   
formed a fist. The force of the blow drove Bill backward, an   
almost comical look of astonishment on his face. He recovered   
quickly, however, surprise transforming almost instantly to anger.   
A quick lunge forward, the blur of his arm, and Grey found himself   
sprawled on the floor, a warm trickle spreading across his upper   
lip. Bill loomed over him, cradling his jaw and glowering.

Grey let his head drop back to the floor with a small moan, swiping   
at the blood beneath his nose with the back of his hand. "I can't   
believe I did that. I must have a death wish."

Bill stared at him blankly, then broke into a shark's grin. "Actually,   
you've got a pretty mean right hook."

"Easy for you to say," Grey griped, groping for his flashlight,   
which had rolled several inches away. "You're the one standing."

"And you're the one who started this dance," Bill reminded him,   
still probing his jaw. But he leaned over and extended a hand.   
"Here. Get up."

When Grey remained motionless, ignoring his offer of assistance   
in favor of examining the ceiling, Bill huffed in irritation. "Oh   
come on! I didn't hit you *that* hard!"

Grey, oblivious to his aggravation, trained the beam from his   
flashlight upward and scrambled to his feet. He continued absently   
to blot the blood from his nose as he turned in a small circle, head   
cranked back as far as possible.

"McKenzie!" Bill snarled.

Grey didn't bother to look at Bill, but his clipped command seethed   
with excitement. "Look up."

Thoroughly exasperated, Bill threw up both hands and glanced   
impatiently in the direction indicated. "Why? What in the..."

An opening. Nearly two feet in diameter, its edges were absurdly   
smooth and regular, as if fashioned by a paper punch. And through   
the hole, dimly, an open expanse that hinted at accessibility.

Grey's head swiveled slowly, revealing a bloodstained face and   
eyes that glittered with manic glee.

"I think we just found our option, Billy."

 

Floor 4SW   
Tuesday   
10:24 p.m.

 

Scully was alone. Mulder was reduced to a mere physical presence,   
a warm body. He'd become increasingly difficult to rouse, finally   
completely unresponsive even to painful stimulus. She didn't   
realize how much strength she derived from just hearing his voice   
until he fell silent. While he was conscious, she could focus on   
*his* pain, *his* needs. Now her arm throbbed and she burned   
with thirst. Her only measure of comfort was that Mulder, at least,   
had escaped his torment.

So she pressed tightly against his fevered body and tried not to   
think of ice water in a tall glass beaded with moisture. Of lying in   
Mulder's arms in the safety and comfort of their bed, piled high   
with soft pillows and thick blankets. Of sun and sand and blue,   
blue water -- all that should have been but now might never come   
to pass. Scully buried her face in the crook of her own arm and   
wept.

His soft, unintelligible moans and whimpers of pain shook her   
from the indulgence of tears and she concentrated on smoothing   
his sweaty hair from his brow and rubbing small concentric circles   
across his back. The sound of her voice calmed him so she rambled   
on, a surrogate television to soothe his restive spirit.

"Did I ever tell you about the time Charlie and I redecorated the   
Christmas tree? I guess I must have been four and he was three.   
Melissa was in first grade, Bill was in kindergarten, and Charlie   
and I were supposed to be napping. Poor Mom was lying down in   
her bedroom -- worn out from dealing with the four of us since   
Dad was still away at sea. I remember Charlie and I had our noses   
out of joint because we hadn't been allowed much participation in   
decorating the tree. Mom let us hang a few unbreakable ornaments,   
but only Missy and Bill got to handle the really special ones."

"It was my idea, I'll admit. Charlie would pretty much follow any   
suggestion I made at that age, so when I concocted my brilliant   
plan he tagged right along. I figured if the two of us took all the   
ornaments off the tree, then we could have the fun of putting them   
all back on again. We were too small to reach the ones at the top,   
but I dragged a couple of kitchen chairs over so that we could get   
most of them." Scully nuzzled his shoulder with a small grin. "You   
know how resourceful I can be, Mulder. I guess we had nearly   
three-quarters of the ornaments stripped off the tree by the time   
Mom woke up and caught us in the act. She shrieked so loud   
Charlie nearly fell off his chair -- it's a wonder neither of us broke   
our necks!"

She chuffed quiet laughter at the memory, but it sounded hollow   
and lonely without accompaniment. Scully blinked back a rush of   
tears and soldiered onward. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that   
Charlie and I did *not* get to hang any of the ornaments we so   
industriously removed! We also had to stay in our rooms rather   
than play outside in the snow after Missy and Bill got home from   
school. But those punishments were nothing compared to the   
agony of having our little escapade recounted in excruciating detail   
every single Christmas." She sighed. "I just hope we get out of   
here so that Mom can embarrass me by dredging it all up again this   
year."

Mulder made a small sound in the back of his throat, shifting   
restively. His hand twitched restlessly until it tangled with hers,   
and his eyes fluttered open to half-mast. He regarded her solemnly   
in silence, until his tongue crept out to moisten chapped lips.

"So thirsty." The words were as dry as the parched tissues of his   
throat, as insubstantial as a current of air.

"Me too, love."

His fingers tightened painfully and she felt a shudder ripple   
through his body. "Hurts."

One word, a single syllable, but from a man who could redefine the   
meaning of "stoic" it spoke volumes. Scully bit down hard on her   
trembling lips and shut her eyes firmly against the tide of emotion.   
All she could do was share his vulnerability.

"I know. Me too, love."

He fell silent, though the occasional glitter of his eyes catching the   
meager light told Scully he was still awake.  
Another, smaller spasm and he drew a ragged breath.

"Not coming, babe."

His quiet declaration affected her on so many levels -- she wanted   
to comfort, she wanted to berate, she wanted to deny. In the end,   
she simply pressed a kiss to his palm.

Because deep down inside, she feared Mulder was right.

 

Floor 4SW  
Tuesday  
10:36 p.m.

 

Grey paused, panting and clinging to the angled beam like an   
oversized tree squirrel. Bill's face poked from the hole above his   
head, a pale moon in the semi-darkness. One large hand wrapped   
around the high end of the board in a stabilizing grip, the other   
directed a flashlight so that Grey could see as he shimmied   
upward.

"You all right?"

*This guy deserves an award for asking stupid questions.*

"Yeah. Having the time of my life," Grey growled, mopping the   
perspiration from his brow as best he could without loosening his   
death hold on the wood.

"You can make it, McKenzie, you're almost there," Bill called.

It was supposed to be encouragement, but it set Grey's teeth on   
edge. True, he'd covered three quarters the distance from the floor   
to the hole in the ceiling, but the difficulty of ascent also increased   
exponentially along with the angle. When he and Bill were lugging   
the heavy beam across piles of rubble and then hefting it into   
place, he'd thought climbing up would be the easy part.

Wrong.

Bill had gone first, scooting up the makeshift ladder with relative   
ease while Grey anchored the bottom end. Unfortunately, when   
Bill attempted to return the favor it rapidly became clear that   
providing the same steadying influence from above was   
impossible. The further Grey's weight moved upward, the more the   
beam rocked, until he feared losing his grip and tumbling to the   
floor.

Pulling in a long, slow, breath of air, Grey slid both hands several   
inches up the beam and dragged his body after, assisting the   
process with a push from his feet. The wood beneath him bucked   
and shifted, prompting Bill to drop the flashlight and grab on with   
both hands. Grey, thrown off balance by the absence of light,   
fought to regain equilibrium.

Feeling himself tilt to the right, he leaned hard to the left. Too   
hard. The near darkness impaired his spatial perception, abruptly   
removing cues he needed to orient himself. The sensation of   
teetering on the edge of an abyss caused him to clutch instinctively   
at the board beneath him, but its wobbling only served to further   
confuse him.

"LOOK OUT!"

Bill's shout of alarm coincided with the terrifying disappearance of   
the beam from beneath him, followed by a loud clatter. Grey flung   
both arms upward, with a low cry. Something like a vise clamped   
onto his wrist, halting his plunge with a teeth-rattling jerk. He   
screamed involuntarily as pain burst along the length of his arm, a   
giant wishbone about to be separated at his shoulder. His feet   
kicked wildly, a bizarre dance over thin air.

"Stop kicking, you moron, I'm gonna drop you!" Bill grunted   
through clenched teeth. "Put your other hand up!"

Biting his lip hard against the pain, Grey did as ordered and nearly   
wept with relief when Bill caught his left arm and eased the tension   
on his right. Peering upward he could now make out Bill's tense   
face by the weak glow of his discarded light. He refused to look   
into the blackness beneath his dangling feet.

"Haven't we been here before?" he panted blearily.

Bill bared his teeth, the cords on his neck standing out as he slowly   
hauled Grey upward. "Not exactly."

"Liked it better...the first time through."

Grey's legs cleared the rim of the hole and he dropped onto the   
floor. He rolled to his back and cradled his aching arm, looking   
around carefully. They were in a tunnel formed by fallen supports   
and debris, the roof barely four feet above his head. Bill puffed   
wearily and retrieved his flashlight.

"Arm okay?"

Wincing, Grey sat up and flexed the limb experimentally.

"Hurts like a sonuvabitch, but I'll be fine." He searched Bill's   
expressionless face. "Thanks."

Half Bill's mouth turned up in a wry smirk. "Told ya I wouldn't   
owe you for long."

Grey started to retort, only to snap his mouth shut and struggle to   
his knees.

"What...?"

"Shhhh!"

Grey made a cutting motion with his good arm and cocked his   
head, listening intently. A moment later he was rewarded by a faint   
cry.

"Is someone there? We need help!"

His heart swelled almost painfully in his chest and his eyes darted   
to Bill. With something akin to awe, he watched the man's face   
transform, a brilliant smile replacing the sullen glare.

"Dana? Dana, is that you?"

Shocked silence, then Dana's voice, muffled and quavering with   
emotion, replied.

"*Bill?*"

"It's me, Short Stuff," he called tenderly. "Where are you?"

Grey, who had fumbled his own flashlight from his pack with   
shaking fingers, hastened to add its illumination to Bill's. They   
began moving slowly down the narrow passageway toward Dana's   
voice, crawling on hands and knees.

"Don't know. There are boards and other rubble all around and I   
can't move. Bill, what are you doing here?" She sounded so small   
and lost, the words rough like sandpaper.

"Mom sent me to bring you a hat," Bill replied dryly, carefully   
navigating over several jagged hunks of steel.  
"And who should I run into but..."

"Dana? Dana, where's Fox?" Grey interrupted frantically.

He struggled to keep Bill's pace, hampered by his sore arm.   
Scrambling awkwardly over the chunks of metal, he snagged his   
ankle and hissed in pain and frustration. Bill skidded to a halt and   
Grey nearly barreled into him.

"He's here, Grey. But he's hurt. You need to hurry."

What Dana left unsaid came through clearly in the inflection of her   
voice -- fear, despair, and something  
Grey couldn't quite put a name to. Something like dread.

"Why are you stopping?" he snapped impatiently, sitting up to peer   
over Bill's bulk.

"Found 'em," Bill said tersely. "Would you like to propose how we   
reach them?"

Grey stared in dismay at the wreckage cocooning a bright flash of   
auburn hair. Creeping around Bill he shined his flashlight between   
two boards to reveal Dana's blood- streaked face and haunted eyes.   
Panning the beam to the right he could dimly make out the   
sprawled form of his brother, motionless.

"Fox?"

The name began as a cry, but emerged as little more than a   
whisper. He dragged his eyes back to Dana, silently asking for a   
shred of reassurance. Instead, she gave a sharp shake of her head   
and repeated her previous plea.

"Hurry."

Grey turned on Bill, who had been studying the pile of debris with   
an almost detached air, now and then reaching out to warily touch   
a section of pipe or slab of plywood.

"You heard her, we've got to get them out of there!" Grey said   
shortly.

He'd actually stretched out a hand to tug at a loose board when Bill   
elbowed him sharply in the chest, knocking him backward.

"Stop!"

Grey scrambled to get up, white with fury. "What the hell do you   
think you're doing?"

Bill held him down, hand to chest, his face impassive. "Preventing   
you from killing my sister -- *and* your brother!"

Grey knocked the hand away, lunging forward and burying his   
fists in Bill's shirt. "You heard what she said, you bastard! He's   
going to die if we don't get him out of there! But that wouldn't   
really bother you, would it?"

Bill tried to twist free, then settled for copying Grey's hold.   
"Listen, you self-righteous little jerk, I want my sister out of there   
just as badly! But that's like a house of cards -- you pull out the   
wrong piece and the whole thing could come down on top of them!   
And have you stopped to think what in the hell you're going to do   
once you get him out of there? We can't exactly take them down   
the elevator shaft, you know!"

The truth in his words pricked the bubble of Grey's indignation,   
effectively deflating it. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," he   
said weakly. "We can't just sit here, we have to try..."

"You touch anything and so help me God, I'll..."

"STOP IT!"

Dana's angry command yanked them from their bickering. Grey   
flushed in shame and Bill dropped his eyes guiltily to the floor.

"I don't know how you two Neanderthals made it this far," she   
rasped. "But you'd better stop arguing and work together or none   
of us will get out of here. This whole area is unstable, and you two   
are carrying on like a couple of brawling little boys!"

She took a shuddering breath and winced, exhausted from her   
tirade. "Grey, you can't move him," she went on quietly. "He's   
pinned to the floor by a piece of metal pipe through his left side.   
We need help."

Grey slumped down, dropping his head to his hands. "Okay," he   
muttered. "I get the picture."

Bill's hand on his shoulder startled him. "I didn't mean we'd do   
nothing," he said gruffly. "But we have to take it very slow."

Grey nodded, then gasped. "I can't believe I forgot! I've still got the   
walkie-talkie!" He dug through the pack and located the   
transmitter. "I'll contact Walt. You see if you can find a way   
through that mess."

"Sure, give me the fun job," Bill grumbled, but his face held   
determination and not resentment.

 

Outside Georgetown Memorial   
Tuesday   
11:03 p.m.

 

"Thought I'd return the favor."

Skinner handed Maggie a cup of coffee, tendrils of steam seeping   
from beneath the lid. She was seated on a chair in the makeshift   
"command center," an island of serenity amidst the turmoil. She   
smiled appreciatively and inclined her head to indicate an empty   
chair.

"Agent Harding?" Skinner asked, sinking down and barely   
containing a grunt of relief.

"She's been keeping Grey's family informed," Maggie explained,   
popping the lid from the Styrofoam cup and taking a sip. "His   
parents were ready to fly up immediately, but Kristen convinced   
them to wait -- in exchange for regular updates."

"Skinner."

He stiffened, feeling Maggie's curious gaze as he turned to face the   
speaker. Mike Fenton crossed to his side, dodging police, FBI, and   
rescue workers with barely concealed impatience. Skinner had   
managed to avoid the SWAT leader until now, but his anger had   
not cooled. Though he'd not spoken to the man in fifteen years, he   
deliberately kept his hands clasped behind his back, a silent   
indication of his disapproval.

"We're heading out now," Fenton announced, gesturing at his team   
members piling into the van. "Most of the gapers have lost interest,   
and Chuck assigned a fresh batch of patrolmen to keep the press in   
check. My men are beat, it's been a hell of a day."

Skinner's jaw tightened with the effort of withholding his true   
feelings. "Fine."

Fenton, his hair now a uniform silver and his face deeply lined,   
frowned. "You got a problem, Skinner?"

*Yeah, I got a problem. You.*

"Nothing I want to discuss here or now," he said aloud, the words   
clipped.

Fenton's eyes narrowed. "Oh please. Don't worry about my delicate   
sensibilities," he said sarcastically.

It proved to be too much. Skinner's grip on his temper had always   
been a bit tenuous, so grief, worry, and bone-deep fatigue merely   
served to loosen his fingers.

"All right. If you insist." Skinner's voice was deceptively soft,   
deadly calm. "We shouldn't be here right now. My agent had the   
situation under control, five more minutes and we all would've   
headed back for a late lunch. You overstepped your bounds, and   
Mulder and Scully may very well pay for your rashness with their   
lives."

Fenton's brows angled downward. "Jackson acted on his own   
recognizance! You can't blame me for..."

"You once told me that the men in your unit were taught to follow   
your orders, and to do so without question," Skinner interrupted.   
"Are you slipping, Mike?"

Fenton's face flushed red and his hands curled into fists. "I   
oughtta... You'd better think carefully about that accusation,   
Skinner. Easy enough to take pot shots here, but unless you want to   
repeat it in front of a review board..."

"Oh, I intend to, Fenton," Skinner said dangerously. "You can   
count on it."

Clamping his mouth shut and spinning on his heel, Fenton stomped   
off to the van, plowing through a young EMT and nearly sending   
him to the ground. Skinner sighed, running a hand across the top of   
his head and cupping the back of his neck. He turned to find   
himself the object of Maggie's amused stare.

"I thought Fox was supposed to be the one who didn't play well   
with others," she said quietly, lifting an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Skinner muttered, the oddest feeling of dÈj‡ vu washing   
over him.

Then he understood. How many times had he observed the same   
scene played out between his two agents -- Scully dryly   
disapproving, Mulder sheepishly repentant? Finding himself cast in   
Mulder's role was too strange to contemplate.

"Anger is wasted effort," Maggie was saying sadly. "What matters   
now is finding Dana and Fox and getting them out of there." She   
sighed, eyes far away. "Fox was already so weak."

Skinner searched her face, then shook his head. "You're just as   
worried about him as you are Dana," he reflected, obviously   
amazed by the epiphany.

"Why should that surprise you?" Maggie's tone was honestly   
puzzled.

"Well...she's your daughter. Granted, Mulder is now much more   
than just her partner, but..."

Maggie chuckled, though her eyes were still shadowed. "Oh, Walt,   
he's been much more than just her partner for a very long time!"   
When Skinner's face screwed up in confusion, she continued.

"I was drawn to him over the months Dana was missing. He was so   
kind, so attentive to me, keeping me abreast of the investigation   
into her disappearance. I saw the guilt devouring him, recognized   
that he blamed himself for not being there when she needed him.   
But I sensed there was more -- deeper, older hurts that had never   
quite healed.  
Maybe it takes one mother to perceive the void left by another."   
She smiled affectionately. "If ever there was a young man that   
cried out for some mothering, Fox is one."

"You love him like one of your own," Skinner observed, his   
respect evident. "In spite of the pain the X-Files have brought   
Scully."

Maggie's smile widened. "Of course. Walt, you've seen them, seen   
the way he looks at her. I have no doubt that Fox would throw   
himself in front of a moving train if it meant sparing Dana pain.   
How could a mother not love a man who'd put her daughter's life   
above his own?"

"Sir?"

Skinner looked up to see a young D.C. cop, one of Draper's men,   
fidgeting nervously beside him. Gratified he could still strike terror   
in others, if not his two agents, Skinner stood.

"Yes?"

"An Agent Hastings asked me to deliver a message to you," the   
officer stammered. "He said that someone has been trying to reach   
you on the walkie-talkie. Channel three."

Frowning, Skinner reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve the   
device. The knob had been turned all the way to the off position,   
something he vaguely remembered doing in a fit of pique when   
Grey refused to answer. Cursing under his breath, he waved the kid   
away and flicked the unit back on.

"Walt? Walt, I repeat, this is Grey! Do you hear me?"

Skinner's throat suddenly transformed into the Sahara Desert. He   
cleared it apprehensively.

"About time you decided to let us join the party," he growled.   
"What's the situation in there?"

Grey's next words, both triumphant and distraught, brought   
Maggie immediately to his side.

"They're alive, Walt. But you have to hurry, we don't have much   
time."

 

Floor 4SW  
Tuesday  
11:42 p.m.

 

Under Bill's direction they cautiously, methodically cleared an   
opening to reach Dana and Fox, shoring up the weak areas with   
extra pieces of wood to add stability. Grey wriggled through first,   
nearly knocked on his backside when Dana launched herself into   
his arms. Swallowing hard, he enthusiastically returned the   
embrace. Dana hissed at the pressure on her injury, and he pulled   
back as if scalded.

"Sorry. Is it broken?"

"More than once, I'm afraid." She ran her tongue over her lips and   
greedily eyed the pack on his back. "Don't suppose you have any   
water, do you?"

Grey mentally smacked himself on the head. "What a couple of   
idiots! Of course I do! Here."

He fished out a bottle and twisted off the cap, holding it steady   
until her shaking fingers could find purchase. She took several   
rapid swallows, eyes slipping shut in bliss, then came up for air.

"Don't have to tell you to go easy, do I darlin'?" Grey asked.

Dana barely heard him, her eyes darting to the sprawled form lying   
several feet away. "He's badly dehydrated from the blood loss," she   
said, voice quavering. "He needs this more than I do."

"Plenty to go around," Grey replied easily, feigning a calm he   
didn't feel. "I'll take care of him. You just relax."

"He's been in and out, Grey. I'm not sure..."

"Dana!"

Bill crawled through the opening with a grace that belied his large   
stature. He scrutinized his sister from head to toe, face a mixture of   
joy and concern, before gently pulling her into a hug.

"Thought I'd lost you, Short Stuff," he murmured, the words   
cracking with emotion.

Dana buried her face in his shoulder, snuffling and clinging with a   
white-knuckled grip. Grey tore his gaze from the reunion and   
crawled over to his brother. Tears flooded his eyes, blurring his   
vision and muting the gruesome sight. He scrubbed at them   
impatiently with the back of his hand, then reached out tentatively   
to stroke a lock of dark hair from his brother's ashen face.

"Fox," he choked.

Grey swept his flashlight slowly down the length of Fox's body,   
following the beam with a feathery touch of his hand. He examined   
the pipe violating his brother's body and pressed his lips tightly   
together. Brow furrowed, he abruptly leaned over, curled his   
fingers around the metal, and tensed in preparation.

"NO!"

Dana's weak but vehement cry frightened him and he automatically   
lifted his hands defensively. Scooting closer she placed her hand   
on his arm and turned her face up to his.

"You can't do that, Grey. It's the only thing keeping him alive."

Grey's face twisted with confusion. "What? Dana, are you out of   
your mind? Can you imagine how much pain he must be in? We   
have to get that thing out of him right away before infection..."

"He'll bleed out," she replied forcefully. "Of course I understand   
the danger of infection, but that pipe is responsible for minimizing   
his blood loss!"

Grey stared down at the large, sticky puddle of crimson before his   
eyes slid back to her. "You call *that* minimal? It looks like pretty   
damn much to me!"

Bill scowled at his belligerent tone. "Look, McKenzie, if  
Dana says..."

"Oh shut up, Bill," Dana snapped impatiently. "You'll only make it   
worse. I can handle this." She tightened her fingers on Grey's arm.   
"I'm not trivializing it, Grey, he's lost a lot of blood. But it could be   
worse, much worse. He could be hemorrhaging, but he's not. God   
knows, I'm aware of his pain -- I've endured it with him. We have   
no choice."

Grey squeezed his eyes shut, but nodded. Rummaging in his pack   
he produced another bottle of water, a box of gauze pads, and   
several sample packets of ibuprofen.

"Here," he said huskily, tossing her two blister packs. "Sorry it's   
not the good stuff but they keep that locked up."

"You've heard the expression 'Beggars can't be choosers?'" she   
returned, grimacing while attempting to open the pills one-handed.

Bill took the package from her and extracted the pills, which she   
washed down with gulps of water. He watched as Grey moistened   
a gauze pad and tenderly bathed the dried blood and sweat from   
Mulder's pale face. Averting his eyes, he grappled with an empathy   
he didn't want to feel.

"I warned you he brings you only grief, Dana," he muttered softly,   
mustering anger instead. "Can't you see it?"

Dana's mouth dropped open in consternation and her eyes darted to   
Grey. Seeing that he was too occupied with his task to overhear,   
she purposely turned her back and confronted Bill.

"You bastard!" she hissed, torn between slugging him and bursting   
into tears. "Brings me *grief*? Have you stopped to wonder why   
his injuries are more severe than mine? Have you?"

Bill's nostrils flared but he jerked his head sharply.

"He threw himself on top of me, you ass! Mulder figured out what   
was happening a split second before the bomb detonated, and he   
reacted by protecting me with his own body. He saved my life!"

Bill squirmed, aware he'd gone too far. He desperately wracked his   
brain for a reply, but a guttural moan saved him.

"Fox? C'mon, little brother, I didn't join this party just to watch you   
sleep," Grey coaxed.

Fox's lids slid open a crack, just enough to reveal a glint of hazel.   
Grey dribbled some water onto his cracked lips, delighted when his   
brother first licked them, and then pulled them into his mouth and   
sucked frantically to extract the fluid.

"More."

"Easy. A little at a time," Grey soothed, repeating the action   
several times before Fox signaled he'd had enough.

The edge off his thirst, Fox seemed to register Grey's presence. He   
struggled to turn his head, but Grey quickly stilled his movements   
with a firm hand on his neck.

"Fox, don't. You'll hurt yourself."

He crouched down so that his brother could see him without effort   
and tried to paste on a confident expression.

"If you didn't want to go to Cancun, you should've just said so,   
little brother," he gibed gently. "I'd have taken Dana."

Fox blinked sluggishly. "How...get here?"

"You might say we took the low road," Grey replied, stroking back   
the same stubborn piece of hair he'd touched earlier. "Walt's people   
are taking the high road, and should get here soon."

Fox's eyes lost focus, rolling back in his head before wandering   
back to Grey's face. "Tired," he whispered, the word little more   
than a puff of air. "Really tired."

Grey tried to reply, but grief and fear filled his throat and tied his   
tongue. To his astonishment, Bill leaned over his shoulder and   
answered for him.

"Tired?" he chided, but his tone held no malice. "You think   
*you're* tired? While you were lying there resting, your brother   
had me climbing up elevator shafts and excavating tunnels! He   
refused to give up, Mulder, so you damn well better make the same   
effort. Your boss is already pissed at us, so you'd better not bail on   
us now."

Mulder's eyes had widened when Bill began speaking, but now his   
mouth turned up in a faint grin. "Skinner...kick ass."

Bill cocked an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Grey. "He can   
try."

As if summoned, Grey's walkie-talkie squawked to life.  
"Grey? You read this?"

Grey pulled it from his pocket and moved off to the side. "I hear   
you, Walt. What's the hold up?"

"About a ton of concrete and steel," Skinner replied dryly.   
"Adamson just contacted me. He's fairly certain that he's in close   
proximity to your location. He said there are weak spots in the   
rubble beneath them and he's going to attempt breaking through.   
Just sit tight and don't get spooked by the noise."

Grey glanced at the others, saw that they understood. "We hear   
you, Walt."

Skinner hesitated. "How's Mulder?"

Grey looked up, but at this distance Fox was barely discernable in   
the muted lighting. "Hanging in there."

"Keep in touch," Skinner said quietly.

Grey pocketed the transmitter and moved back toward the others.   
Bill, who had removed his jacket, astonished him by spreading it   
over Fox, not Dana. His brother's eyes were closed and he was   
shivering. Grey quickly stripped off his own coat and added it to   
Bill's.

"Shock," Dana murmured. "That and the fact that the floor is   
freezing."

Bill tugged her back against his chest and curled his arms around   
her small frame. Dana settled into his warmth with a sigh like a   
sob.

"He wouldn't let me give him my coat," she said, her lip trembling.   
She used the pad of her thumb to swipe a few errant tears from   
beneath her lashes. "He was so adamant I gave in -- figured the   
stress was worse than the cold."

The faint roar of heavy equipment caused the three of them to   
jump, in spite of Skinner's warning. Grey glanced at the ceiling   
uneasily, then settled back down next to his brother with his hands   
clasped around his knees. Fox continued to shiver, oblivious to the   
noise.

"Was what you said true?" Scully asked after several minutes of   
strained silence. She tilted her head to see her brother's face. "Did   
you really get here by climbing up an elevator shaft?"

Bill hitched a shoulder in Grey's direction. "He drove," he said,   
grinning. "I just came along for the ride."

"He asked so nicely, I just couldn't refuse," Grey confirmed dryly.

Scully's eyes leap-frogged between the two men, her lips parted in   
surprise. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you two were   
actually beginning to get along with one another!"

Bill eyed Grey as he replied. "You know the old saying about   
politics making for strange bedfellows? Guess the same could be   
said for a bomb."

"I'll say one thing for your brother," Grey remarked grudgingly.   
"He's got a great catch."

Bill smirked. "Yeah, but my high wire act could use some work."

Scully rolled her eyes. "I'm guessing I'd rather not know what you   
two are talking about."

The racket from the rescue equipment sharply increased in pitch,   
followed by the clatter of heavy objects striking the floor. The   
machine cut off, followed by a brief silence.

"Hello? Agent Mulder? Agent Scully? Can you hear me?"

"Over here!" Scully called frantically, leaning forward as if to   
crawl toward the voice.

Bill's large hand on her arm restrained her. "I'll find them," he said   
gruffly. "You stay with Mulder."

Scully gaped at his retreating back, then turned slowly to regard   
Grey with an arched brow. He simply shrugged.

"Been campaigning for your cause, darlin', but I didn't think I was   
getting anywhere. Now sit down before you fall down, you look   
terrible."

"You sure know how to sweet talk a girl," Scully grumbled, but   
she complied anyway.

Grey placed a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder and they   
waited in tense silence until Bill reappeared. Close on his heels   
was a middle-aged man in coveralls and an EMT dragging a box of   
first aid paraphernalia. Scully waved the young man off with an   
impatient flick of her hand.

"I'm all right. My partner needs you now."

Before she could continue with an assessment of Mulder's   
condition, the older man spoke.

"Agent Scully, I'm Joe Adamson. I can't tell you how happy we are   
to find you -- you and Agent Mulder have been our needles in the   
proverbial haystack!"

"We're equally happy to be found, Mr. Adamson," Scully replied,   
her eyes glued to the paramedic as he checked Mulder's pupils and   
wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.

Seeing her preoccupation, Adamson lightly touched her arm to   
gain her attention. "I've got another medic coming with a basket.   
As soon as Olsen there has your partner ready to travel, we'll get   
him out of here."

"It's not that easy," Scully said sharply. "If I'm correct, once that   
pipe is removed from his side the bleeding will escalate. He'll need   
a trauma team and a surgeon ASAP."

Olsen, who had been examining Mulder's injuries while Grey held   
a high powered flashlight, raised his head and nodded grimly.   
"She's right, Joe. This has to be choreographed down to the   
smallest detail or he could bleed out before we've cleared the   
building. As it is, it's much too risky to transport to another   
hospital. Can they take him downstairs?"

Scully flashed him a grateful look while Adamson frowned and   
pulled a radio from his belt. Scully scooted closer to Mulder while   
Adamson conferred with someone on the outside, voice low and   
terse.

"How's he doing?" she asked, watching as Olsen efficiently started   
an I.V. in Mulder's hand.

Olsen brushed blond bangs from his eyes and grimaced. "He's not   
good. Are you a doctor?" When Scully nodded, he continued.   
"He's pretty dehydrated -- but the saline will help with that. His BP   
is low and his pulse is thready. There's early signs of infection, but   
nothing like I would expect in a situation like this."

"He just got out of the hospital a week ago after suffering from   
pneumonia," Scully murmured. "They've got him on some heavy   
duty antibiotics."

Olsen winced. "Poor guy can't catch a break, huh? Don't worry,   
we'll get him through this. Once my partner gets here -- there she   
is."

A young woman, her bobbed hair as dark as Olsen was fair,   
squeezed into the now crowded enclosure, pulling the long, wire   
basket that would eventually transport Mulder to freedom.

"Glad you could join the party, Brandmeier" Olsen said smoothly.   
"Our patient here is Agent Mulder. This is his partner, Agent   
Scully, and his brother."

Mulder's hand twitched and his eyelids fluttered. Olsen sprang   
quickly to prevent him from dislodging the I.V.  
Further disturbed by the restriction, Mulder whimpered and began   
to struggle.

"Take it easy, Agent Mulder, we're trying to help you," Olsen said,   
leaning into his grip. "You have to stop fighting me or you're going   
to mess up the I.V. and I'll have to start another. You don't want   
that, right?"

Mulder went limp, but his eyes opened and flitted anxiously about.   
"Scully?"

"Shhh. I'm right here, Mulder. Just lie still, we're going to get you   
out of here."

Scully worked her way around to his head, where she could rest   
her hand without interfering with the EMTs. She tried to block out   
Olsen and Brandmeier's concerned expressions as they quietly   
conferred, petting Mulder's hair and drawing what strength she   
could from Grey's solid presence. Adamson put away his radio and   
cleared his throat.

"Everything's set on the outside. The ER was barely affected by the   
blast and though they're closed to public admittance they've been   
treating patients internally who incurred injuries from the   
explosion. They'll have a team standing by. We'll take him up and   
out the fifth floor and around the building to the ER. Proceed   
whenever you're ready."

Olsen and Brandmeier consulted each other with their eyes,   
reached an agreement. Olsen beckoned to Bill, who reluctantly   
crawled to his side.

"First things first," he said briskly. "Mr..."

"Bill. Bill Scully," Bill replied uneasily.

"Bill. I need you to help me lift this beam so that Brandy can slip   
Agent Mulder's arm out from under it. Once that's done, we'll   
extract that section of pipe and get him the hell out of here."

Bill hesitated only momentarily, then nodded. Following Olsen's   
lead, he seized the heavy plank of wood.

"On three," Olsen said. "One, two, THREE!"

Scully and Grey looked on anxiously as Bill and the EMT   
carefully hauled the beam upward, tendons standing out on their   
necks and perspiration dotting their foreheads.  
Surrounding boards creaked ominously, but Brandmeier drew   
Mulder's arm from the niche slowly and deliberately.

"Got it!"

The beam settled back in place with a soft thump, Bill and Olsen   
huffing from the exertion. Mulder squirmed a bit as Brandmeier   
poked and prodded the limb.

"Scullee. Make 'em stop," he moaned.

Scully shushed him, relieved when Brandmeier flashed her a   
brilliant smile.

"Looks good. Circulation wasn't affected but the wrist is sprained -  
-possibly broken. It can wait until later."

Scully leaned over to press a kiss to Mulder's temple. "Hear that,   
love?" she whispered. "Gonna have matching casts too."

"Okay, let's take this act on the road," Olsen said briskly. "Brandy,   
did you give him some morphine?"

"Just enough to take the edge off," she answered, adjusting the drip   
on the I.V. "I'm concerned about the head injury and he's awfully   
shocky."

Olsen nodded, then addressed his observers. "I need everyone but   
Agent Mulder's brother to move back. Once I get rid of this pipe   
we're going to break speed records to get him out of here. Every   
second counts. Joe will help the rest of you out once we're gone."

Bill moved to a corner, surreptitiously touching Scully's shoulder   
as he passed. She brushed her lips against Mulder's forehead, then   
his cheek, blinking hard against stinging eyes. Mulder's lids kept   
slipping shut and his gaze was vague and unfocused. Knowing that   
he couldn't grasp what was about to happen added to her distress.

"I have to leave you for a few minutes, love," she murmured, the   
words catching in her constricted throat. "I'll just be a few steps   
behind you. Wait for me, okay? No ditching or I'll kick your ass."

His only response was a string of consonants. Weeping inside,   
Scully tipped her chin up and gave Olsen a firm nod.

Licking his lips, he curled his fingers around the pipe and gave an   
experimental tug. Mulder whimpered, and Scully's eyes slammed   
shut reflexively. Warmth encompassed her shivering body, along   
with a familiar and comforting scent. She leaned back into Bill's   
arms, appreciative of the support and that he offered it silently. She   
turned her face into his shoulder, for the first time unwilling to face   
Mulder's pain head on. Olsen's voice was tense but steady.

"One. Two. THREE!"

Mulder shrieked. The cry was raw, primal, and Scully felt it   
throughout her entire body like an electrical charge. A flurry of   
motion and a volley of terse, hasty words drew her from her   
sanctuary just in time to see Mulder strapped into the basket and   
whisked out the narrow opening, Olsen pulling and Brandmeier   
pushing.

One snapshot image of his deathly pale face and shuttered eyes, a   
sparkle of moisture on his cheeks.

Tears.

And then he was gone.

Scully listened dully as the scrape of the basket, shouted   
instructions, and hurried footfalls faded and utter stillness rushed in   
to take their place.

She felt split, torn in two, as if Mulder had been ripped from her   
the way Olsen had ripped the pipe from Mulder's body.   
Involuntarily, her eyes strayed to the discarded piece of metal   
stained with his blood.

He was gone. Just that quickly. Just that simply.

Something large and solid blocked her view, ending her   
contemplation. Grey crouched down, glancing warily at Bill before   
taking her face between his hands.

"Just a few minutes behind, Dana. You promised him, remember?"

She stared into his eyes, Mulder's eyes, and felt the split begin to   
heal. She'd promised. And Mulder always held her to her promises.

Sensing something from her expression, Grey dropped his hands   
and stepped back. Scully turned to Adamson, straightening her   
shoulders despite the throb in her arm.

"Let's go. I've got somewhere I need to be."

 

Room 217NE  
Wednesday  
6:25 p.m.

 

An annoying hum, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, drew Mulder   
reluctantly up from the depths of velvet darkness. Somewhere   
there was pain, sharp teeth gnawing the flesh of his side with avid   
intensity. Fortunately, a thick gray cloud cocooned him, encasing   
his limbs in lead and leaving his brain cells the consistency of   
slush. The pain was there, somewhere. He just didn't care.

The quiet drone began fragmenting into pieces -- words, his torpid   
mind finally concluded. They danced like butterflies just beyond   
his reach, and he was tempted to ignore them and sink back into   
the comfort of the darkness when a single syllable dropped into his   
grasp and he latched on, following its thread.

"...Dana was very lucky. Both breaks were clean and she won't   
need surgery."

Grey's voice.

"Still can't believe she wouldn't let them admit her for observation.   
Sometimes she can be as hard-headed as your brother."

Skinner.

"I'm just grateful she sat still long enough for them to set the   
breaks and give her some fluids," Grey answered dryly. "She   
wouldn't let anyone touch her until he got out of surgery."

Skinner snorted. "If they were smart, they didn't push the issue.   
I've been on the receiving end when she's distraught over Mulder   
and believe me, you don't want to go there."

A soft chuckle. "I hear you."

"You all right? Playing Keanu Reeves in an elevator shaft can't   
have been good for your back."

Mulder sensed the shrug. "It's pretty tight right now but the doc   
said I didn't add any damage, just set back my recovery a bit.   
Funny thing is, I never felt it until after we got Fox out of the   
building. Adrenaline, I guess."

"Where's Agent Harding? I was looking forward to watching her   
kick your butt. She was pretty worried, you know."

A chuff of laughter, then Grey's voice softened. "She already did. I   
was suitably repentant. She was dead on her feet, so I sent her   
home to get some sleep."

"Wouldn't hurt to take your own advice."

"Yes sir, Assistant Director Skinner." Quiet laughter. "I swore to   
Dana that I wouldn't leave him until she gets back. It was the only   
way to get her to lie down for a while."

The teeth were gnawing a bit more vigorously now, harder to   
ignore, and Mulder wanted to see his brother's condition for   
himself. Concentrating mightily, he levered heavy eyelids to half-  
mast and tried to focus. He must have made a sound because when   
the blurred images finally resolved both Grey and Skinner were   
bracketing the bed and watching him intently.

"Hey, little brother," Grey said, eyes shadowed but warm. "How do   
you like the new accommodations I got you?"

"'S hoping for...suite at...Hilton."

His throat had that ground glass quality consistent with intubation   
and Mulder screwed up his face in displeasure.

"Here. I'll be Scully this time," Skinner said wryly, holding a straw   
to his lips.

Cool, slick, wetness. Mulder drank and drank, vowing to never   
take water for granted again. He finished the entire cup, then eyed   
Skinner as he replaced it on the bedside table.

"Scully kisses me. Feel free...skip that part."

Grey chortled and his boss rolled his eyes. "Must be feeling better.   
His smartass sense of humor is back."

Mulder let his head loll to the right. "How 'bout...damage report?"

Grey clasped his hand, and Mulder was surprised by how good the   
simple physical contact felt. His brother sank into a chair but left   
their hands linked. Skinner walked around to carefully perch on the   
foot of the bed.

"Minor concussion. Sprained wrist. A set of bruises that would do   
a prizefighter justice. And a half-inch hole in your side that   
somehow managed to avoid every major organ. You were beyond   
lucky, Fox. You'd better rethink your religious stance, 'cause   
someone was looking out for you yesterday, and it wouldn't do to   
piss Him off."

Mulder's eyes wandered over the twin bags of blood and I.V.   
solutions, then locked onto Grey's. "Scully?"

"Concussion and a couple of broken bones in her arm. She's lying   
down on a cot in the nurses' lounge, thanks to Elena. They wanted   
to admit her but she politely told them what they could do with   
their forms," Grey smirked.

Mulder's lips curved. "Tha's my Scully," he slurred.

His side beginning to burn with a vengeance, Mulder tried to shift   
to his right. The resulting explosion of pain rivaled Rynne's bomb.   
The world receded to a pinpoint and his ears buzzed loudly for   
several minutes. He didn't even realize he'd been moaning until he   
noticed his sore throat had returned.

Grey was standing again, his face tight. "Guess I forgot to mention   
that you shouldn't try to move right now."

Mulder tried valiantly to grin but it felt like a failure. "Don't   
suppose...time for more good stuff?" he asked hopefully.

"I'll get Elena," Skinner said, jumping at the opportunity to be   
useful.

Mulder watched him duck out the door, managed a wry twist of his   
lips. "Gonna get 'em together...'f I don' kill  
m'self first."

Grey dropped back into his chair, shaking his head. "You do have   
a way about you," he mused.

"I'm getting the strongest sense of dÈj‡ vu," Elena said, pausing in   
the doorway and offering Mulder a sassy grin. "Must be related to   
a past life."

"Ha, ha," Mulder said weakly. "Should be...comedienne."

"After yesterday, I just may give that some serious thought," she   
replied, crossing to the bed and setting down a small, stainless steel   
tray.

She proceeded to slip a thermometer in his mouth and appropriated   
his good wrist, eyeing the clock as she checked his pulse. The   
blood pressure cuff went on and she retrieved the thermometer,   
nodding in approval.

"Lookin' mighty good, Mulder. Temperature just a little above   
normal and BP is climbing back up to a reasonable range. Good   
thing, too, since Dr. Brewer was pretty ticked off that you messed   
up his hard work."

Mulder gave her a longsuffering glare. "Sorry. Apologize...when   
see him."

Elena examined him with a critical eye, taking in the lines of pain   
around his eyes. She touched his cheek gently, the skin cool and   
clammy under her fingertips.

"Pain's bad?" she asked, all flippancy gone.

His eyes slid away to study the frayed edge of the blanket, but he   
nodded. Fully aware this man tended to minimize his hurts, not   
exaggerate them, she laid her hand briefly on his forehead and then   
picked up a syringe from the tray.

"I've got just what you need," she murmured.

Within five minutes he was sleeping deeply, fingers slack in Grey's   
grasp. "You must have given him some good stuff," he said,   
cocking his head at Elena.

"He earned it," she replied, eyes soft with compassion. "A lot of   
people owe him and Dana their lives." She smiled up at Skinner   
and Grey. "And the two of you, as well."

Skinner actually grinned at her, some of the weariness falling from   
his features. "You didn't do so bad yourself. The rest of us are   
trained for this sort of thing, but you... You kept a cool head,   
Elena. You told us what we needed to know, and you helped   
evacuate those most at risk. They owe you too."

Elena gave a mocking little bow, but her eyes were pleased. "Well,   
thank you. I'm on my way out of here -- can I buy you two a cup of   
coffee?"

Grey held up a hand. "Thanks. I'll take a rain check."

"He's just going to sleep, you know. I hit him with enough   
morphine to stop a tank."

One corner of Grey's mouth lifted at her description. "I know. But I   
promised Dana I'd stick with him until she gets back, and I value   
my life."

Skinner's smile widened. "Smart man."

Grey listened to their banter as they walked out the door, glad that   
Elena seemed to bring out Walt's lighter side. The man certainly   
needed to loosen up now and then.

He squirmed around in the uncomfortable chair, finally propping   
his legs on the end of Fox's mattress with a little hiss of relief. His   
brother could have been made of stone, but for the gentle rise and   
fall of his chest. Grey let his head drop to the seatback and closed   
his eyes.

"She said I had to stay, but she didn't say I had to be awake," he   
mumbled wearily. "I won't tell if you don't."

Despite sore muscles and the hard chair, sleep found Grey easily.

 

Room 217 NE   
Wednesday   
7:22 p.m.

 

This time when he swam up to consciousness Mulder knew she   
was there. He could smell her -- the distinct blend of soap,   
shampoo, and Scully that lingered on their sheets and gave him a   
warm feeling of contentment. His lips curved before he opened his   
eyes, his reward a blinding smile from his favorite redhead.

"Hey, sleeping beauty. It's about time you decided to join the land   
of the living."

The straw appeared before he could open his mouth, and he   
chuckled a little to himself as he sipped. When she pulled it away   
he gave her a loopy smile. "You're a lot prettier than Skinner,   
babe."

Scully laughed, an all out expression of mirth that he'd rarely been   
privileged to witness. Her palm cupped his cheek and her thumb   
brushed across his lower lip. "You are so stoned," she said, little   
riffs still escaping.

Mulder wasn't sure what he'd said that was so funny -- the   
narcotics racing through his system left him too fuzzy- headed to   
puzzle it out. It didn't really matter anyway. He'd make an idiot of   
himself on a routine basis if he could generate laughter like that.

"How do you feel?" Scully asked him, her fingers automatically   
slipping to the pulse point on his wrist.

He opened his mouth to reply but a yawn slipped out first. "Better.   
Side just aches a little."

"I'll bet," she replied, eyes still dancing.

Mulder slipped his wrist from her grasp and clumsily twined their   
fingers. "You?"

"Pretty good, actually. I caught up on some sleep since you were   
down for the count. And I'm on drugs myself -- though hardly of   
the same caliber as what's dripping through that I.V. of yours!"

Mulder squinted a little, struggling to focus his wandering   
concentration long enough to assess her appearance. To his relief,   
her words seemed to be sincere. A cast encased her arm from wrist   
to shoulder, and there was a livid bruise on her cheek, but her eyes   
were bright and her posture relaxed.

"Look good," he said, attempting a lecherous wink but only   
succeeding in provoking more gales of laughter.

He was still tired, so tired, and his eyes involuntarily began to drift   
closed when an important question cut through his muzzy brain.

"Go home tomorrow?"

Well. Obviously he'd discovered how to make the laughter vanish   
too. Scully sobered and her thumb caressed the tender skin around   
his I.V.

"Mulder, you've been through a severe trauma, and right on the   
heels of a terrible illness. You need time to recoup, to build up   
your strength..."

"Grey said no major organs. An' no infection."

"You lost a lot of blood, love. And you're on intravenous   
painkillers. You're going to be hurting when you try to get up," she   
chided gently.

"Be fine," he insisted, wincing but doggedly shifting himself   
forward as if to prove the point. "I'll rest."

"Mulderrr," she groaned helplessly. "Maybe by Friday -- *if* you   
keep improving, okay?"

He shook his head adamantly, and to her bewilderment seemed on   
the verge of tears. "NO, Scully. Tomorrow. Please?" He turned his   
head to stare at the wall, blinking hard. "Don't wanna spend   
Thanksgiving in the hospital, Scully. Please."

His ragged plea, delivered barely above a whisper, cut through her   
confusion and splintered her heart in the process. Of course,   
tomorrow was Thanksgiving. A day rife with unhappy memories   
for Mulder. The first without his mother's presence -- such as it   
was -- in his life. No wonder he was willing to endure anything not   
to spend it here.

"I forgot, love," she admitted, nudging his leg so she could sit   
beside him. "I can't believe I could actually forget about   
Thanksgiving, but I've been a little preoccupied."

"'S okay. I just can't..."

"Mulder, my man! How's the incredible human Timex tonight?   
Dude, you are one for the record books, that's for sure."

Dr. Brewer breezed into the room with impeccable timing, sporting   
an incredibly gaudy tie and a wide grin. Oblivious to the scene he'd   
interrupted, he continued to converse as he pulled Mulder's chart   
from the pocket at the end of the bed and flipped through the   
pages.

"Yesterday was crazy, huh? You guys do that for a living? This job   
doesn't look half-bad after all! I gotta say, though, you are one   
lucky son of a bitch, Mulder. Considering what your body's been   
through the last few weeks, you're doing great -- no, make that   
amazing. You..."

Their silence finally seeped through his chatter and he trailed off,   
eyes darting back and forth between their faces.

"What's up?"

"Nick," Scully said, squeezing Mulder's leg reassuringly. "We have   
to talk."

 

Room 217 NE   
Georgetown Memorial  
Thanksgiving Day  
3:08 p.m.

 

"More pie, sweetheart?"

Mulder waved a hand, while he swallowed a mouthful of whipped   
cream, gazing pleadingly into Mrs. Scully's eyes.  
ìMaggie, have pity! I'm stuffed."

"Small wonder, you ate like a pig," Grey pointed out, standing up   
and stacking his brother's now empty paper plate on top of his   
own.

"Like you have room to talk," Mulder retorted.

"He's right, Grey!" Kristen admonished, laughing. "People who   
live in glass houses..."

Grey adopted a wounded expression. "Et tu, Kristen? Siding with   
my brother against me?"

"Just keeping you honest," she replied, pressing a kiss to the corner   
of his mouth and appropriating the plates. "It's hardly fair to pick   
on an injured man."

"In other words, the answer is yes," he called after her as she   
scooped up an empty cup and headed for the trash can.

"I want to thank you again, Maggie," Mulder said, ignoring his   
brother's theatrics. "I never intended..."

"Doesn't matter what you intended, Fox," Maggie said firmly.   
"You're a part of this family now -- don't you realize that? I'd never   
let one of my children spend a holiday in the hospital, alone."

He stared at her mutely for a moment, then looked quickly away   
eyelids flickering rapidly. He sensed Grey make himself scarce,   
felt Maggie's hand run affectionately through his hair.

"I'm sure you miss her, sweetheart. Holidays just seem to intensify   
it. I must admit I find myself thinking of Bill and Missy more this   
time of year."

It took him a moment to process that she was speaking of his mom   
and not Samantha. Mulder swallowed the tears and met her gaze.

"In some ways you've been more of a mother to me than she ever   
was," he confessed softly. "But I think... I *think* she regretted   
that."

Scully, chatting with Tara near the doorway, drifted over, gaze   
shifting between their faces, her expression tentative. Mulder   
smiled reassuringly, touched by the mixture of relief and love that   
crossed her face.

"Is she done stuffing you, Mulder?" she asked, slipping her hand   
into his.

Maggie looped an arm around her daughter's waist in a hug. "You   
know me better than that, sweetie. I haven't even begun! Now if   
you two will excuse me, I haven't had a chance to wish Walt and   
Elena a Happy Thanksgiving." She headed across the room to   
where Skinner and Elena were conversing with Grey.

Scully turned to Mulder, her eyes doing a quick inventory from the   
top of his head to the tip of his toes.

"See anything you like?" Mulder asked, producing a respectable   
leer, thanks to the reduction of morphine in his bloodstream.

"Mmm. Let's just say I'm *very* thankful this year," Scully   
responded, giving him a smoldering look of her own. "How are   
you holding up under all the festivity?"

"I'm a little tired and sore," he admitted.

"You can have another shot, Mulder. You had them cut back the   
dosage pretty drastically."

"Your mother went to an awful lot of trouble to pull this off,   
Scully. I didn't want to be too high to appreciate it. I'll be all right   
for a little bit longer."

Scully eyed him shrewdly, but whatever she saw seemed to satisfy   
her. "Mom wanted to do this, Mulder. When she heard it was   
impossible for Dr. Brewer to release you, she felt terrible. She   
insisted that if you couldn't come to Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving   
would come to you."

"I'm sure Bill loved that," Mulder said under his breath.

Bill was currently seated in the corner near the door, arms folded   
across his chest, watching the activity with a jaundiced eye.

"He was less than enthusiastic," Scully admitted, pursing her lips   
in a useless attempt to hide her smirk. "Mom told him to feel free   
to spend the day at home, alone. She's adopted you now, Mulder.   
There's no escape."

Mulder tore his gaze from Bill, a smile creeping back onto his wan   
face. "Yeah. She told me. I'm grateful, and I'm sorry I hared out on   
you yesterday. I just..." He sucked in a long breath, blew it out   
slowly. "It was too much like the holidays when I was a child, after   
Samantha was gone. I tried, year after year, to concoct a way to   
bring our family back together. To make it special and maybe   
recapture just a little of the good times we used to have. But no   
matter what I did, how creative I was, it was always a bust."

He looked down at their joined hands wistfully. "I wanted this year   
to be different. When Mom died, the last vestiges of my old life   
died with her. I don't mean to sound as if I've given up on finding   
Sam -- I'll never stop looking. But I'm also not that lonely little kid   
anymore, desperate to belong. I have Grey, and I have you. That   
trip to Mexico was more than just a vacation to me. It was a sign,   
proof that this year I'm not on the outside looking in. When it all   
went to hell like that, when I realized that I would wind up stuck in   
here..."

"It felt like old times," Scully murmured.

"In the worst sense of the word," Mulder agreed.

She gently disengaged her fingers from his and reached up to brush   
a lock of hair from his eyes. "Even if my mother hadn't turned into   
the Martha Stewart of the surgical wing, you wouldn't have been   
on the outside, love." She ducked her head and grinned into his   
eyes. "Or at least you would have had someone out there with you.   
And believe me, I'm just as disappointed about the vacation as you   
are. But I consider it postponed, not cancelled. Once you're up to   
it, I expect to be lying on the beach in that skimpy bikini you   
bought me, while you rub suntan lotion on my back and bring me a   
cold drink."

Mulder raised an eyebrow. "I'm beginning to understand my place   
in the grand scheme of things," he said sardonically. His eyes   
dropped and he shifted uncomfortably. "Might be a while before   
I'm ready to wear a swim suit, babe. Got a glimpse of the damage   
when they changed the dressing today, and my left side is not a   
pretty sight."

Suddenly his patented leer was wearing Scully's face. "Mulder,   
when you wear that suit, it's not your *side* they look at."

He gawked at her in shock, then embarrassed amusement.  
"Sculleee!"

"Am I interrupting something?"

Skinner's voice startled them both, and Mulder shot Scully a   
quelling glare. "Not at all, sir. Scully and I were just mourning the   
loss of our vacation."

"Only you could find a way to be injured in a hospital, Mulder,"   
Skinner said ruefully, shaking his head.

Scully half-heartedly attempted to conceal her grin behind her   
hand, and he barely resisted the impulse to stick out his tongue.   
There was obviously still too much morphine in his system, since   
no snappy retort would come to mind.  
Skinner spared him further deliberation by turning serious.

"Mulder, I wanted to let you know that I checked on Theresa   
Rynne. She was evacuated before the explosion and she's still   
alive, though in critical condition. The shock of her husband's   
death, and the circumstances surrounding it, understandably put a   
further strain on her already weakened condition."

"What's her prognosis?" Mulder asked quietly. "Did you speak to a   
doctor?"

"Her new cardiologist," Skinner replied grimly. "She was   
transferred to George Washington and assigned a new physician,   
since Dr. Lawrence... Anyway, he was less than hopeful. Said   
she'd probably survive another couple weeks, a month at most. All   
they can do at this point is make her comfortable. They don't   
expect her to leave the hospital. She has a sister that's assuming   
guardianship of the children."

Mulder absorbed this information, his face impassive. "Did you   
take care of the other matter?" He sensed Scully's sharp gaze,   
maintained eye contact with Skinner.

Skinner averted his eyes, jaw tight. "It's a highly unorthodox   
request, Mulder. I don't even want to *think* about all the articles   
of protocol I'm helping you violate," he said sotto voice.

"Then you did it?"

Skinner's eyes were back on his, piercing. "Yes. My lawyer had a   
trusted colleague who's handling it. The trust fund will be set up so   
that Rynne's son can only access the money for his education.   
Thereís a second one for the daughter if she decides to go to   
college when the time comes. Theyíre anonymous, and won't be   
traced back to you."

The tension left Mulder's body and he leaned back farther into the   
pillows, wincing. "Thank you, sir. I understand your reservations,   
but this was something I needed to do."

Skinner acknowledged his words with a slight dip of his head.   
"You have nothing to feel badly about, Agent Mulder. Your   
handling of Rynne was above reproach, and if not for outside   
intervention, I have no doubt that you would have resolved the   
situation peacefully." He appeared to mentally push aside irritation   
that his own statement engendered. "Now I think I'll have that   
second piece of pie that Maggie has been offering."

Mulder stared after Skinner's retreating back, a thoughtful   
expression on his face. Scully cleared her throat, giving him a   
narrow look.

"Something you forgot to share with me, Mulder?"

He flushed guiltily, tugging her closer to the bed. "I was going to   
tell you eventually, Scully. I just wasn't sure how you'd react."

His expression was contrite, but she also sensed a deeper sorrow   
lurking under the surface. Slipping off her shoes, she nudged him   
over and carefully joined him on the bed. Her arm still ached, and   
it felt good to lean into the warmth of his body and the softness of   
the pillows.

"Scully, not now. Your mother is here and there's a minor present,"   
Mulder teased, indicating Matthew, who was busily driving cars on   
the windowsill.

"You're deflecting, Mulder," she said, quieting his fidgeting hand   
by snagging it with her own. "Tell me about this trust fund."

He went very still, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I'm not   
blaming myself, Scully. I know there's nothing I could have done   
to stop what happened. But I couldn't forget how proud Daniel   
looked when he talked about his son. The first Rynne to go to   
college."

"So you decided to make sure he'd be able to graduate, in spite of   
his father's death," Scully said.

"His kids were the reason I was finally able to reach him, Scully,"   
Mulder replied defensively. "It meant everything to him that his   
son might succeed where he hadn't. You know how I feel about the   
money my parents left me. This puts some of it to an honorable   
use."

Scully brought his hand to her lips and placed a kiss on the palm.   
"Mulder. I think it's a wonderful gesture. Did you really think I   
wouldn't approve?"

A shrug of his shoulder. "Not exactly. Just that you might think I   
was doing this out of a sense of guilt. That it was  
a way of punishing myself for not being able to save Daniel."

"*I think* that you're someone who feels deeply for other people,"   
she replied affectionately. "It's just one of the reasons I fell in love   
with you."

He shifted a little to look into her face, waggling his eyebrows   
suggestively. "Just one, babe? Care to mention some of the others?   
Or better yet, let me refresh your memory?"

"My mother and Matthew, Mulder, remember? Not to mention   
how you your little demonstration would affect Bill."

Mulder leaned back, a beatific smile spreading across his face.   
"Ahh, Scully. Now *there's* a picture that's worth a thousand   
words."

She chuckled softly, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Across the room, Bill eyed their cozy position and turned stiffly in   
his chair, taking another gulp of the drink in his hand.

"You're sure the life of the party, Billy. Better tone it down, we   
*are* in a hospital, after all."

Bill scowled up into Grey's mild smile, pushing his chair back and   
standing. "When I find a reason to celebrate, I just might be," he   
growled.

Grey shook his head, the humor leaving his expression. "It's all   
staring you in the face, Bill! Two days ago a bomb took out a wing   
of this hospital, yet we're here, alive and reasonably intact, to tell   
the tale. You could be standing over your sister's grave right now   
but instead you're here, a drink in your hand, a wonderful meal in   
your belly, surrounded by people who, for some reason, love you --   
including your sister. What more do you need?"

Bill had the good grace to look ashamed. "She's my little sister,   
McKenzie, and I love her. I just want what's best for her. This life   
she leads with your brother -- it's not what I would have chosen for   
her."

Grey shook his head. "She doesn't need you to choose for her," he   
said shrewdly. "She needs you to love and support her in the   
choices *she* makes."

Bill heaved a gusty sigh and glanced back to where his sister and   
Mulder were lying on the bed, their heads close together as they   
talked quietly. He clenched his jaw and turned back to Grey.

"Supporting her is a bit much for me right now. But I guess I can   
stay out of her way."

"Now *that's* something to celebrate," Grey said, clapping him on   
the back. "How about joining Kristen and me for a piece of pie and   
you can tell me all about where you learned to catch someone on   
the fly."

"It's all in the wrists, McKenzie," Bill answered, grinning.

Mulder glanced over just in time to see his brother slap Bill's   
shoulder, and the answering smile. Squeezing Scully's hand to gain   
her attention he motioned toward the two men.

"Scully, look at that!"

Scully swiveled her head and watched their brothers for a few   
moments, a smile spreading slowly across her lips.

"Now *there's* an extreme possibility, Mulder. Must be an X-  
File."


End file.
